Night of the Blind Beggar a W3 Tale by Rielle
by Gabrielle Baer
Summary: James West and Artemus Gordon investigate murders of former Confederates in the District. Artie goes missing, and is found badly beaten, thanks to 'The Courier Conspiracy'. Jim goes into a rage and goes undercover and everything goes downhill from there!
1. Chapter 1

**The Night of the Blind Beggar **

A Wild, Wild West tale by Roniyah Gabrielle Caitrin Bhaer

Author's Notes:

I first wrote this story in 1979-80, and sent it to a fanzine of sorts, being put together by the Clarion writing workshop, at that time 'housed' at Michigan State University. I checked that and as of this year, Clarion is moving west to a new home at University of California San Diego. Theirs is a wonderful program, encouraging writers of Science Fiction and Fantasy, since 1968, including, luckily for me, fanfiction, too.  In any case, I was greatly honored to have this fanfiction accepted by Clarion that year, and a wonderful artist named Signe Landon did some spectacular artwork for it, too. If I can talk a friend into scanning it, I will share that with the forum too.

In any case, I thought the kindly readers might enjoy this story, which never got widely published, and besides, who reads hard-copy fanzines anymore? I should mention though that as far as I know the second fanzine that pubbed TNOTBB, 'Spies in the Old West' #2, is still available from: Live Oak Manor Press, Gail M. Paradis, 237 Simmonsville Avenue, Johnston, Rhode Island 02919-5823 This story should probably come with a high-angst warning. It really puts 'our guys' through the mill. That being said, I wouldn't give it a higher 'rating' than PG but some might think it rates PG-13. If you've read this fic before now; Please be advised, I've been writing stories since I was ten, and I will always try to improve them, when the chance arises. So you will find changes in this version of TNOTBB. Hopefully they're for the better. J

Roniyah Gabrielle Caitrin Bhaer, summer, 2007

Disclaimer:

I don't own rights of any kind to the characters or storylines of the classic series The Wild, Wild, West, and that's a darned shame. James T West, Artemus Gordon, Colonel Richmond, Jeremy Pike, Frank Harper and 'Miguelito' Loveless do not belong to me. Dang it anyway. Those rights belong to the late Michael Garrison's estate, to Leonard Katzman, Bruce Lansbury, the other producers of W3 and possibly still to  the Columbia Broadcasting System CBS. No copyright infringement or profit taking of any kind is intended by this work of fiction. So please, don't sue me, it would be a huge waste of attorney-billing hours.

On the other hand; Jacques D'eglisier, Thomas Macquillan, Stephen Anthony West, Liesl Branoch, Stephan Aynsley, Jean Stuart, Daniel West, and Remiel Julien Boudin, as well as their supernumeraries herein, are my thought-children. So I will ask the gentle reader to ask their 'mother' me before inviting them to play in your sandbox fanfiction thanx. 

This story is dedicated to three gifted actors, in alphabetical order Michael Dunn, Robert Conrad and Ross Martin who, with their incredible creative talents of contributed so very much to the series which inspired this story; Michael Dunn, Robert Conrad and Ross Martin. It is my thank you to them all for the fun, the fantasy and the terrific 'ride' they gave so many others and me, by letting us come onboard the Wanderer, and share their adventures.

Sadly, Michael Dunn and Ross Martin are no longer with us, so I can't thank them in person, now. Nevertheless I want to say that W3 would never have been the marvelous show it was, without both of them and their boundless talents. What they shared with all of us was manifestly their great passion for acting, for characters, and for story telling on a grand scale. We were and we still are very lucky to have shared the world with them. And if the opportunity arose I would want to say this to Robert Conrad, thanks so very much for bringing James T. West so vividly to life, and for all of your other incomparable work. That is a tremendous gift of yourself, which we can never repay.

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Cast of Characters: Night of the Blind Beggar

Robert Conrad                                                                      as James Torrance Kiernan West

Ross Martin                                                                         as Artemus Alastair Lachlan Gordon nee Adamech Auriel Elisha Gorniak

William Schallert                                                               as Benjamin Franklin 'Frank' Harper

Stephen Nichols                                                                        as Stephan Johannes Aynsley

Alyson Hannigan                                                                          as Liesl Marguerite Branoch

Joseph Cotten                                                                       as Remiel Julien Boudin.

Martin Sheen                                                                           as Ulysses Simpson Grant                    

John Spencer                                                                 as Thomas Kieran Anglim Macquillan

William Shatner                                                              as Jacques Etienne Merlion D'eglisier

Charles Aidman                                                                          as Jeremy Tobias Pike

Stephen Nichols                                                                        as Stephan Johannes Aynsley

Michael Dunn                                                                as Miguel Raul Enrique de Olvidado y Sin Amor de Cervantes aka Miguelito Loveless

Arthur Hill                                                                                        as Stephen Anthony West

Joanne Woodward                                                                             as Anne Randolph West

Arthur Kennedy                                                       as James Torrance Kiernan 'Jimmy' Randolph      

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**Part One, Night of the Blind Beggar**

 **Scene One**:  Washington, DC December, 1872

James T. West stood in the doorway, grinning at his partner. Artemus Gordon lay on his back, one leg still in a cast, grinning feebly in return. West didn't say he was glad to see Gordon. And Artie didn't chide Jim for that omission. Artie had gone missing for nine days, prior to being admitted to this hospital, two nights ago with all the telltale signs of a severe beating. So Jim entered the ward again, with real concern in his clear, green eyes.

''Absent without leave, Artie?'' Jim chided him solemnly. ''For nine days, Artie? I'm surprised at you. You could at least let me know where the holiday party was!''

Artie laughed, coughed and shifted on the bed, in deference to his tightly bound broken ribs. ''How could I, James? The actor-agent demanded. '' I still don't know where I've… hold on there! Did you say for nine days?''

''Nine, Artie,'' West nodded. '' Starting with the night you took up the watch position across the city, and sent Hildy back to the train.''

''Aw, how are the dear, sweet ladies?'' Artie asked, smiling at their private joke.

''Well, Hildegarde is fine, now that she's sure you're back and you're going to be okay. But Loretta, Genevieve and Charlotte haven't spoken a civil word to me all week. And Henrietta, Marie, Antoinette, Maude and Therese won't even come out to eat! They miss you, Artie. They can't bear these long separations.'' Jim said, winking and cracking a smile.

''Poor ladies!'' Artie exclaimed, his dark eyes full of laughter.

'' Poor ladies?'' Jim answered. '' What about poor me? Artie, do you want to see my scars? Do you want to see where Charlotte almost took my left ear off?''

''No, no, James, Please.'' Artie now laughed aloud.

''Well, all right. I just came by to tell you I wouldn't be around for a few days, myself. Frank will be at the train if you're worried about the ladies. They seem to really take to him.

 I've got to go. Colonel Richmond AND the Man both want to know who's killing off the beggar population of Washington, and why. And, as usual, they want to know as of sometime last week! See ya, Artie, see ya.'' Jim turned and left.

''Yeah, sure. See ya, Jim.'' Gordon said, and shuddered, without knowing why he felt a sudden, brief chill. The windows in the ward weren't just closed, they were painted shut, and likely years ago. Maybe he was developing a fever. Maybe he just didn't like the idea of being stuck in bed while Jim went out on what was becoming a bewildering case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scene Two **

'' You know I have to get out there **tonight.**'' Jim complained, shouting from his cabin aboard the Wanderer to Frank Harper out in its parlour car. '' So I haven't got time for any more of your invaluable advice on play-acting, Frank. It's almost dark as it is, and …''

''And that's exactly the sort of slip-up you've got to watch for, Jim!'' Harper answered sharply. He was already pacing the width and length of the parlour car, shaking his head and wondering what would convince the younger agent to wait. '' You're taking the part of a man who's stone-blind and has been since the War, since First Wilderness, as the Confederates would say, in fact. So you can't tell dusk from daylight!  And nobody anywhere expects a beggar to be punctual. And you don't seem to hear what I keep telling you about the beggars we've already found beaten to death. They were all veterans of the Army of Northern Virginia.  

'' I heard you, Frank.'' West said, emerging from his cabin. His satin vest and suit were gone, replaced by a well-worn Confederate sergeant's uniform. His hair was mashed down beneath a butternut-grey kepi. His face was half hidden under straggling whiskers and sideburns, and deeply scarred, especially around his eyes. Now he hesitantly reached forward, as if to balance his uncertain steps. Instinctively the tall, rail thin Harper reached one long arm to halt West's stumbling progress short of the marble-topped writing table. And grasping his friend's proffered arm, Jim West let out a peal of triumphant laughter.

'' If you could see your face!'' West crowed.'' Frank, this disguise was partly your idea!''

Harper only smiled tautly at the younger man. He wasn't amused by the dangers of the mission Jim was laughingly undertaking. Nor did he much like the reckless, stubborn determination that lit West's green eyes in an unspoken challenge. Jim had always been too confident for his own good, Harper thought.

''No, Sir.'' Frank contradicted his friend and partner, his grey eyes flashing a rarely seen temper. '' It was my idea to get myself up as another Southern street beggar here in the District. And it was the other part of my idea that you would follow along as close as possible, to pull me out of whatever trouble I might find. ''

''Which is exactly what Artie planned. Which is probably exactly what these killers expect. But they don't expect me, not as a former Confederate begging on the streets. Which is why Colonel Richmond ordered me to perform the masquerade, this time, which was no more than five minutes after I told him we have to stop playing to the bad guys expectations.'' Jim said, prodding Harper in the chest with each sentence to make his point.

'' The Colonel knows you and Jacques and Artie, and Mac, when he takes one of these gambits on, can talk your way out of trouble, nine times out of ten. But this is the eleventh time, Frank, since its prett darned clear Artie's was number ten!  So this time I'm setting myself up as a blind beggar, who used to be ANV, while you bring up the cavalry as needed. Is that clear?''  West' green eyes sparked with anger, but not with Harper, the older agent knew.

Jim was angry with the failure of the previous plan, in which he had the 'cavalry' role and failed to find, much less rescue Gordon, as needed. The soldier-agent was determined now to redeem that failure, just as much as he was determined to halt what seemed a chain of pointless, vicious killings.

'''Clear.'' Frank answered quietly.

''Good.'' Jim said, his anger fading like a summer storm.  Now he took a cautious, eyes closed tour of the parlour car, to find and pick up a battered tin cup and a pair of thick cobalt blue spectacles. ''There, I'm ready. These specs are almost as good as a blindfold.'' Jim said, settling the leather thong that held the cup around his neck and putting on the glasses.

''Alright if you're so ready, let's hear that Old Dominion drawl.'' Frank demanded, knowing this was another challenge for the younger agent. Jim often claimed he couldn't wrap his tongue around dialects with the effortlessness Artemus Gordon, Jeremy Pike and Frank Harper had.

''Wah, Ah'll hev ye t' know, seh…'' Jim started and stopped, frowning. '' Damn it, Frank, I was raised just outside N'folk! You know that! The first boarding school I went to was 'up north' in Alexandria, and I only went there because my aunt's family had a home in the town. If I'd gone to Virginia Military Institute, instead of West Point… '' Jim looked down at his tattered clothing, thoughtfully. ''This uniform could have been mine.''

''And if it was yours, Jim, you'd be out of a job.'' Frank laughed. '' Last time I checked, the Secret Service still isn't recruiting ex-Confederates. Not that we couldn't use some on a case like this one. Besides that, surely you would have mustered out with a higher rank than sergeant, even in Bobbie Lee's Army. You'd have come out with at least a first lieutenancy, considering you graduated West Point, 12th in your class. Come to think of it, as short-handed as the Army of Northern Virginian came to be at the end, you might could've made captain!'' Harper grinned and nodded at West, who'd mustered out of the Army of the Potomac with a major's oak leaves.

West fixed the older agent with a bright green glare for a moment, then laughed, himself. '' Captain? Are you kidding, Frank, Captain? Why by the time I got through with Bobbie Lee's Army, I'd have been at least a Brigadier, and the whole, entire War would have gone the other way! And when you next see General Lee, you can tell him I said so. He just never sent for me, is all. C'mon, lets get this masquerade underway! Seems like these killers were waiting for Artie, so they're probably waiting for me, now. And I've never believed in keeping murderers waiting.''

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	3. Chapter 3

**Scene Three**       south of Baltimore, MD  January, 1873

''You are wrong, Liesl, quite wrong.'' Stephan Aynsley told his niece. ''Our experiment, our endeavor, proceeds quite well. Only your impatience makes the time long for you. But Science cannot be hurried to its proper ends. Do you yet understand this principle?''  He trained his deep-set grey eyes on the girl who was his ward, his late sister's only surviving child, and frowned. Aynsley towered over the girl, standing six foot two, with a powerful, graceful frame and broad shoulders. He resembled Liesl's grandfather far more than he did her mother, with collar-length thick, dark almost to black brown hair above a high forehead, a hooked nose and a closely trimmed beard. His whole manner and bearing were that of an exiled aristocrat, which the scientist sometimes allowed himself to believe he was. His voice was compelling and clear, and he knew quite well how to use it to control his ward, or anyone else who came into his dominion.

''I do understand, Uncle.'' Liesl Branoch answered, miserably. '' My own intolerable impatience quite ruined our latest experiment. Please, do forgive me.'' Liesl looked up at the man she depended upon and cherished as her only kin and example. She'd dressed her long, unruly chestnut curls in the modest, practical fashion he favored, and dressed her slender frame in the lighter shades, and more practicable style he encouraged, not liking the girl to continue in deep mourning.

Her eyes were hooded and a dark, nearly black shade of brown, making her fine sometimes still-freckled features seem even paler than they were. She was slightly built, standing just five foot three, short waisted and long limbed. Her features were as aquiline and refined as her late mother's, a fact Liesl worked hard not to be vain about, and sometimes failed. Her voice was still too girlish for her own satisfaction, and sometimes she still rushed about her uncle's house like the hoyden she could no longer be.

''I shall, if you prove your claim of comprehension by setting back to our endeavors immediately. ''' Aynsley agreed, giving her only the slightest nod of her head. He was quite satisfied with her repentance. But Liesl, aged seventeen and a half was extremely sensitive and high-strung as a thoroughbred. Her exaggerated responses to his slightest change of mood were disquieting to his well-ordered mind. And in as much as his work demanded his full attention and energy, the Viennese immigrant found himself avoiding Liesl's company. He had no desire to let his frowns crush her still vibrant spirit, or his taut smiles dizzy her with joy.

''What would you have me do, Uncle?'' Liesl asked, already growing too excited for his comfort.

''First, Liesl, contain your uncalled for emotionalism. After what happened recently, I should no longer need to remind you how vulnerable our subjects are to such displays. Aside from that, this tendency towards overstated reactions, is unladylike, Niece, and unprofessional. You are learning, as you've asked to do, to become a scientist. And you are becoming a young woman. You must stop behaving as a child; moreover you must no longer behave in such a hoydenish manner. ''

''No, Uncle. I must not.'' Liesl answered, her dark eyes downcast, her excitement flown.

''Go downstairs and have our new subject sent to me, at once. And when you have returned here to the laboratory, Niece, do not let me hear you speak out of turn. We once more approach the critical first stage of our endeavors. We will soon come to the most crucial point in this new trial. Yet certain factors are now very much in our favor with this new subject.  And I believe with this aspirant, we may finally succeed. Therefore, I will have you only observe what I do and say at this juncture, nothing more.''

'' No, Uncle, nothing more.'' Liesl nodded, quietly turned and left the attic laboratory of her uncle's home.

Watching her go, Stephan Aynsley once more brooded over his clenched hands. Today, unless he'd ordered it otherwise, Liesl would have come back to their work dressed in deepest mourning. For eight years she'd mourned the deaths of her parents and sisters in the siege of Atlanta. And still all her strength flowed into, and fed on her hate-filled plots, her plans, both grandiose and small, for her revenge, and theirs. Liesl was a lovely, fragile girl with an aristocratic heritage from both sides of her family. Her mother and uncle counted themselves distant kin to the Hapsburgs still ruling their native Austria. Her father and his kin were 'from old money', in the heart of Georgia. But the turmoil of the late War lived in Liesl's spirit to this day, like a winter storm off the Georgia coast. In her dark, deep-set eyes, an unreasoning rage never diminished or died. Liesl Marguerite Branoch, after suffering war, privation, humiliation and terrible loss was no longer a child, and no longer entirely sane.

Since Liesl came to him, from the wreckage and remorse of burned out Atlanta, all her uncle's endeavors were overtaken by the girl's drive for vengeance, and her descent into madness. He had only one true goal when she arrived, to take Liesl to _Vien _and there find some help for her dark, despairing, and increasingly violent desires. But since the girl came to her uncle's home, in the last, darkest winter of the Conflict, Stephan had been nearly consumed by the need to ease Liesl's wild grief and his own sharp regret. Now, he only wished to somehow make her torment known and shared and understood.

And Liesly, as he'd called her when she was a child, knew very well how to shape her uncle's yearnings to yet more closely march with her own. So they entered what Aynsley only afterwards recognized as a deadly morass, littered with every sort of trap and every category of lethal dangers, at each step they took. And by the time a man Liesl hated with all of her fiery spirit took the heights of power, uncle and niece were bound on a path of vengeance there was no turning back from. The difference between them was that Liesl had no wish to escape their nightmare existence, while Stephan no longer knew how he could.

In the process of their horrifying endeavors, a total of thirty men had come to Stephan's surgery and thence to his attic laboratory in the past three years, the first years of Ulysses Grant's Presidency. Some came of their own accord. Others were abducted from the streets of Washington. Some of these men shared Liesl's ferocious rage that 'the Butcher' should again be in a place of ultimate power. Others shared Stephan's mounting anguish, at the damage, the grief, and the loss they already laid at the feet of the former Commanding General of the Union Armies. None of them left his laboratory unscathed.  And so far, none of these subjects, who Stephan no longer dared think of as other men like himself, had reached the 'proper ends' of his experiments on their minds their bodies, and their spirits .

Ironically, the Viennese researcher and physician first developed the means he tested on these subjects, while treating soldiers during the Crimean War. Stephan Aynsley started working towards a combination of methods he now called 'patterning' in an effort to relieve such men of their most traumatic, most debilitating memories of that war. Mesmerism was one element of his process. Chemical inducement of physiological and mental changes in his patients was another. Briefly sustained sensory isolation only became part of the patterning's equation when Aynsley found short-lived exposure to such measures made his patients quite glad to rejoin their world.

Once immigrated to America, with the late Conflict approaching, Aynsley fully intended to help Confederate soldiers in the same way, with the same means. And that, he knew, trapped now in a hell of his own making, had been his first step away from his oaths as a physician and his lifelong dedication to Science, both. Buoyed by the wild enthusiasm spreading throughout the South when the Conflict finally started, Aynsley felt he might do great good for his adopted countrymen.

 But seeking the Richmond government's authorization to work with Confederate wounded; Aynsley found himself more and more often at cross-purposes with a  flood of beaureaucrats. And these petty, demeaning, obstreperous little men had no grasp at all of the benefits Aynsley's patterning offered the sick and injured pouring into Richmond's hospitals. Covertly, never in their official capacity, some few of these men suggested he try his uncanny alien notions and outlandish foreign methods on Union prisoners of war instead, now arriving in greater and greater numbers.

A lifelong anti-militarist, a sometime pacifist, Aynsley rejected this idea as barbarous, at first. He knew it to be antithetical to all rules of warfare. Deliberate abuse of prisoners was something no scientist, nor physician could conscience. And Herr Professor Doctor Stephan Johannes Aynsley was both. But the Conflict changed many things and many people in Richmond, as it drew on. And the Viennese was no exception.

He grew as bitter as any

native Southron. He grew as desperate to stop the utter destruction of that genteel, quasi-aristocratic world as anyone in the Confederate capital. And he decided to act. With only private funding, and nothing remotely in the way of the Richmond government's assent or backing, Aynsley spent the last two years of the Conflict finding and equipping a 'testing site' between Richmond and Fredericksburg. The place he chose had been a lavish boarding school for plantation owner's sons. It offered a high brick wall surrounding the complex, long rooms that had been dormitories, small rooms that once were for classes or detention, and a minimal chemistry laboratory.

There he occupied his time trying his patterning on prisoners culled from the Libby, Belle Isle and Castle Lightning prisons in Richmond. Scores of men came into Aynsley's hands there, into his utter control. None of them became the 'Couriers' he sought to create and send back to their armies with his treacherous, deadly dispatches. Many of them went irrevocably mad, some were suicides, and others simply never emerged from the darkness and silence imposed upon them in what Stephan Aynsley himself called a 'private corner of hell'. There was, Aynsley finally considered, simply not enough time for 'a full patterning'. There were not enough reasonably healthy prisoners for his rigorous testing; and never provisions enough of the compounds he used to literally turn their minds.

When Atlanta fell in the autumn of 1864, Aynsley lost all his surviving kin but one, nine-year-old Liesl. Her two sisters, a toddler-age brother, and her parents died in an influenza epidemic in one of the rough refugee camps that sprang up that autumn; when Sherman ordered the evacuation of Atlanta's remaining civilian populace. That order, amongst all he issued that fall, left the 'old jewel' of a Southern city empty for his troops, and it left a hatred for that Union general that would not die within the next century and more. And with his sister's dying pleas ringing in his ears, the stunned and grieving Viennese scientist withdrew from all but his 'endeavors' and his niece's care. The Conflict's end, half a year later barely registered with him. The violent rage of many Northerners after Lincoln's death meant little or nothing to him. He'd suffered his own violent losses. He cared nothing, now, for theirs. The confiscation of his sister's property had no effect on Aynsley, except to limit his resources.

Taking the terrified, and bewildered, shaken and raging girl away from the deathly horrors around Atlanta, Stephan Aynsley used his connections among former Confederate sympathizers in and around Baltimore to acquire suitable property for both his livelihood, his housing and his continuing research into the workings of the human mind and it's twinned processes of remembering and forgetfulness. As he had during the Conflict, Aynsley now found, or reconnected with those who also wanted to see the 'proper ends' of his endeavors come to be. And those he did not find himself, Liesl brought to their new home, just south of Baltimore, from her various social circles, all of them made up of former Confederates or their northern-born adherents. Gradually, with their avid interest and their liberal backing, the scientist recreated his testing devices in the attic of their three- story, dilapidated house, and set up his laboratory there.

And eventually, in a European style surgery, the Viennese began to see 'patients'. He only waited the right time to strike, and the proper target, now. The victorious Northern politicos seemed to be almost imploding, in the frenzied aftermath of their triumph. No one Aynsley or his colleagues perceived as a threat or even an insult to their honored dead, to their Lost Cause or to their 'fair, doomed Confederacy' appeared to able to hold power. No one, not Andrew Johnson, not Edwin Stanton or any of the 'Black Republicans' in Congress seemed powerful or prominent enough to arouse both their fears and their pent up rage for vengeance, until the election of Ulysses Simpson Grant as President, in November of 1868. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Scene Four **mid January 1873, Stephan Aynsley's laboratory-home, three miles south of Baltimore

Ulysses Grant had been President for two years, ten months and twelve days, by January 16, 1872. And in this winter alone, nine men had come to Aynsley's surgery and then to his attic laboratory. None of them were able to withstand even the tests that preceding full patterning. And of those nine, three seemed to exemplify all the problems and all the hopes Aynsley had for his methods.

The first was a tall, broad-shouldered, street beggar, with dark, almost Italianate coloring, a good ten years older than any other of his subjects, and far more voluble than most. Aynsley rejected this man, when preliminary testing revealed his tendency towards heart seizures.

This subject ''escaped'' the laboratory, with only enough patterning to confound his memory and shape his future actions to a limited extent. This older subject would not betray Stephan Aynsley or his plot, because he no longer remembered either.

The second subject in this triad endured the early testing and entered into the first part of full patterning, over a fortnight and a little more. This was a still fairly young person, born in east Texas, but raised in the hotbed of secession, Charleston, South Carolina. He had a compact build and rugged features, lit with sky blue eyes, under a crop of thick brown hair. He moved like a wrestler, and spoke like a natural born fire-eater from antebellum days. All these attributes and his apparent stamina caused Liesl to build wild and still wilder hopes that this subject would be the tool of her longed for revenge.

Instead, when the girl interfered at a crucial point, urging him on to 'the Courier's task', this subject lapsed into an ultimately suicidal depression. Dying by his own hand, through the agency of a shard of glass, this man babbled childishly of east Texas and Charleston harbor at Stephan, and smiled widely at the light in Liesl's great, dark eyes. He'd almost become the armed tool of vast hatreds, issuing death and dismay. Now he would die free.

The third subject came to Stephan's surgery less than two weeks after the suicide. And Liesl would have rejected his candidacy at once, as this subject was wholly blind. His fire-scarred green eyes, below an unkempt 'thatch' of dark brown hair, perceived no light at all, not even on the highest, brightest part of the spectrum. Otherwise, this subject was more than adequately whole and sound, however famished, Stephan judged. He possessed a wiry, frame, and a boxer's build, with sturdy arms and legs and shoulders. His intelligent features, Aynsley speculated, were somewhat sharper than their norm, due to a street beggar's poor diet, or some other reason that hardly mattered now.

And this subject he presented new possibilities for the endeavor, along with new challenges the scientist was glad to have after so many failures. Now Aynsley observed and physically tested this third subject for most of a week. He set the blind man tasks to do, gave him burdens to carry, and paths, and completely furnished rooms to memorize. Otherwise, this newest subject was kept under constant watch and isolated. In this way Stephan Aynsley encouraged the subject to grow restless, impatient and wary, as any caged creature would. Only when it became clear that week's activities were wearing this subject's nerves thin, did Aynsley order him brought to the laboratory. And when Liesl came right behind the new subject, her uncle made another decision.

 '' Leave us now, Niece.'' He ordered her, his hard expression forbidding protest, and waited her response.

''Yes, Uncle.'' Liesl murmured unhappily, and left, to lean against the outer door, eagerly eavesdropping without the slightest compunction.

Stephan turned now and found his subject standing rigidly, almost as if at attention, or as if he hardly dared move. He wore the uniform of a sergeant in a Virginia regiment of the defunct Army of Northern Virginia. And Aynsley addressed him as such. ''This is my laboratory, Sergeant. There are a great many fragile, and expensive, not to say irreplaceable vials and instruments here. There is also a bench three steps to your left, against the far wall. Go to it now and sit there.''

''Yes, seh.'' James West answered. He was fighting to keep his blind stare from the man who spoke to him. Without any means of knowing or learning it beforehand, this imposing person somewhat resembled the agent's father, Stephen Anthony West, a tall, slim Tidewater horse-breeder, whose hair had been the darkest brown in years back, whose eyes had been a bit wider, but this same steely grey in color. And West had some memories of Stephen West in which the older man took on something like this man's authoritarian manner. The man who claimed this room was his laboratory was built very much like Artemus Gordon, too, with a strong neck and powerfully broad shoulders, Clearly he also had some of Artie's liking for extravagant speech.

The agent's wariness was real. He knew the slightest wrong move could betray his charade. His cobalt spectacles had been taken five days ago. His uniform had been taken for two days, as well, while it was likely searched. His nerves were stretched taut with waiting. And none of the 'exercises' set him in the past week made much sense to West's  weary mind. Extending his arms out stiffly, West took one step, then two, and fell, colliding headlong with a low table. Swearing enthusiastically, West flailed at the table, at the wall behind it and

at the floor.

''How long have you been blind, Sergeant?'' Aynsley asked. Helping the blind man to stand.

''What's that to you?'' West demanded.

''A very great deal, but even more to you, I would think. Your answer will tell me how far I may go in restoring your sight. So, again, how long…'' Aynsley asked, but the agent, in character, angrily stopped him.

'' Restorin' mah… What in th' very devil d' you mean by that?'' West as the stone-blind Sergeant demanded to know.

'' I mean that it may be possible to restore your vision, Sergeant. Will you do me the honor of answering my question, now?'' Aynsley answered, still sounding completely calm.

''Yes, seh. I was blinded at First Wilderness, seh that them danged Yankees like to call Chancellorsville, instead. Yankee artil'ry was shellin' somethin' fierce an' startin' up some real bad fires, too. An' we…'' West told him, repeating the story he'd memorized as the foundation of his 'cover'. 

'' That battle was in May of 1863, Sergeant, nine years ago. I'm sure everyone in the South remembers that time, as we won a great victory and lost our General Jackson. Did you have full vision until that time?''  Aynsley asked, walking away from the bench and West.

''Yes, seh. Seh, that Miss Nan, she brought me out here, she didn't say nothin' bout nobody mendin' my eyes, seh. Nothin' a'tal!'' West protested. His 'Sergeant' wouldn't begin to understand such things

''Exactly what did she say to you, Sergeant?''

'' Seh, she told me I was to hev victuals an mebbee a new coat, an a place to sleep, th' rest  of th' winter, now, if'n I done what somebody called Stefin tol' me. So here I come, an I ain't heard hardly anybody, an' I ain't be told so very much of a much to do. An' I ain't heard any word of that there Stefin, no how!''

''I am Herr Professor Doctor Stephan Johannes Aynsley, Sergeant. '' the scientist replied, giving his full title, as it had been, as it would be, if he were only in _Vien._ ''And I can do much more than fill your belly and cover your back. I can make you a focus of history. And I can, under certain conditions, restore your sight. But that will come later, as your reward.''

West froze where he stood. He was certain Aynsley's promised restoration meant surgery. And anything remotely like surgery would expose_ his _sham in two seconds flat, and likely kill him outright. But the beggar he counterfeited couldn't know anything of the kind. ''Wah, ye're crazed!'' West shouted, in character. '' You cain't do that! Nobody can! Them docs, them docs at that field hospital said as much, all them years ago. An' b'sides, you're no doc!''

''But I am a physician, young man. And having trained not in this benighted country but in Vienna, Munich, Amsterdam, Zurich, and at the Sorbonne in Paris; I am far better equipped and far more knowledgeable than those jumped up barber-surgeons could ever be!'' Aynsley insisted, almost amused by this young man's histrionics. He showed no such amusement in his voice. Instead, to West, he sounded coldly angry, as if his pride had been stung.

'' 'M sorry, seh, it was wrong, real wrong of me to holler thataway. Them field docs, they hardly knowed a thing, that's certain sure.'' West answered in a suitably cowed tone, hanging his head and slumping his shoulders for emphasis.  '' But they tol' me, seh, they said mah eyes was plumb ruint. They said mah eyes were so much burnt nothin' could get me seein' agin.''

''And they were wrong, and ignorant, just as you said, Sergeant. And I've alarmed you unduly. You still do not know why you are here, do you?'' Aynsley answered.

'' Umm, no seh.'' West shook his head. It's_ not going to be milking your cows, or mucking out your stables, I'm willing to bet, though._ The agent thought.

''Then I will tell you precisely what you are to do for me. Sergeant. You are to become an extraordinary courier, delivering a crucial message to a very well renowned personage.'' The scientist explained, focused intently on his subject now.

''A courier, seh? But I… I am blind, seh, blind as a pile o' rocks, seh.'' West protested, in a much quieter tone.  Okay_, this is about to become as bad as they come. A courier, a message and a personage?_ _Why do I think certain sure I know what that message says and who that personage is, before you say another word? Maybe it was that promise to make me a focus of history! _The soldier agent thought_. Listen up, James' m'boy, he's still ranting._

''And so, indeed, you seem the least likely choice. But that is precisely the reason, Sergeant that you make an exemplary choice! You will be considered quite harmless, completely unworthy of suspicion, to those who would curtail such a mission. And once your task is done, no one will believe you pose any threat at all. For all those reasons, and more, Sergeant, you will in fact be the perfect Courier!'' Aynsley insisted.

''Oh… umm, yes, seh… figure I don't entirely understand, seh.'' West muttered. _Actually, I'm really afraid I completely, completely understand where you're going with this._

''You needn't understand it, entirely, Sergeant. You've already begun to learn what you must know to carry out your mission. And I have already begun to learn what I must, to ensure our success. I already know you have a quick, highly retentive, if not photographic memory. That is a great benefit. And … I digress. Excuse me, Sergeant. All you need learn to accomplish your task is to function, within certain severe limitations, as a sighted man.

That is the reason behind the various mazes and furnished rooms you have been becoming acquainted with. At the appointed date, place and time, you will deliver the message I will teach you, as a sighted man. Leaving that place, you will revert to your present state, that of a blind man in strange surroundings. That being the case, few persons, if any will take notice of your entry or your exit. You know that happens, however unfortunately, as part of your daily existence. You go unseen by the entire sighted world around you. Is that not always the case, Sergeant, unless you somehow make your presence known?''

'' Yes, seh, figure it is, seh. A fella could just as well be … invi… indiv… in…a fella could be somehow like he weren't there atall; you're surely right about that, seh. '' West nodded, holding tightly to his 'persona'.

'' As though he were invisible, I believe you meant to say. But in this case, it will prove a godsend, Sergeant. No one on the day I mentioned will even consider that the seemingly sighted courier and the bewildered blind man are one and the same! Now, do you understand that much?''

'' Yes, seh.'' West answered, cold with the fear Aynsley's icy calm roused in him. This 'Herr Professor Doctor' meant to actively control and manipulate the beggar he saw standing in his laboratory. And in doing that, he would somehow meddle with West's mind, memory and motives. This_ has to be the one who fuddled Artie so badly that he lost his memory of nine days! _Jim thought._ And now he's ready to try whatever he did that with, on me! Maybe if I act fuddled now, he'll give up on that. Maybe I can at least stall him, some. _

''Uh… Doc… ummm, Doctuh, seh, that Miss Nan, she did say somethin' else, somethin' I still ain't sure I got figured.'' West said, putting as much hesitancy and confusion in his voice as he could.

''What was that, Sergeant?'' the scientist asked, sounding impatient with his subject that subject thought.

''Seh, I cain't figure it none, but she sed, if'n I done what this Stefin, what you tol me, seh, I'd end up some sorta kinda ginu ine Confed'rit hero, seh. She never did say, seh, how that could be, tho'. An' like I sed, seh, I just cain't figure it, no how.''  West answered.

''Nor should she have said as much.'' Aynsley growled, and began pacing the width and length of the laboratory. ''And there is no need to discuss such matters at this stage of our joint endeavors. You will understand all you need to, Sergeant, when that need arises. Obviously, the Confederacy no longer exists. Therefore there can be no heroes for that ravaged and conquered nation. There are, though, thousands of Confederate veterans, widows and orphans throughout the South, who…''

''Who desire, who deserve and who will have retribution for their losses!'' Liesl cried out, thrusting the door open, almost leaping into the room. '' We demand it, we are more than worthy of it. And we shall achieve true justice at long last for our honored dead, for our beloved, lost ones, and for our venerated South!''

''Liesl!'' Stephan Aynsley shouted, alarmed by her hectic manner, angered by her eavesdropping. ''Liesl, Niece, be still!'' 

"No, please!'' the mad girl answered, wild eyed, trembling and bright faced with rage and excitement. '' No, No! You must tell him! He will be a true and eternal Southron hero! He will return Acclaim and restore Dignity to his People! He will be the Southron Achilles, choosing Lasting Glory over Length of Days! He will be venerated for generations to come as the Illustrious Southron Liberator! He will be renowned forever as the greatest Southron champion after Lee, Jackson and Stuart! And he will bring to thousands upon thousands of the Yankee Butcher's victims their final, their ultimate vengeance on…!''

"Liesl! I ordered you to leave this room. I expected you to return to your studies! I ordered you not to speak in my laboratory again without my permission! I expected you to obey me!'' Aynsley bitterly remonstrated with the girl. ''I expected that obedience especially in light of the fact that your froward, undisciplined, unscientific and disobedient actions wrecked our latest experiment! This subject, as I said before, is at a crucial point in his progress. He has barely begun the memory work required for his task. Therefore, Niece, I now demand that you obey me! Be still and leave my laboratory for your rooms!''

Jim West made himself stand as if at 'parade rest' on the training grounds at West Point, shoulders, neck and back taut, face forward looking at absolutely nothing, expression impassive, arms down, legs and feet almost welded together. The girl was patently insane; but her words shook him like a fever. And he couldn't show these enemies, these traitors that reaction. And what shook the soldier agent hardest was the thought that he'd heard some of those phrases long before tonight. But he had no idea, not the least recollection of when, where or from whom. And he couldn't take the time to try for that memory, not in the company of people whose fondest wish seemed to be the assassination of Ulysses Grant!

_This Aynsley may as well be talking to the wind, to a thunderstorm, to an avalanche, or a prairie fire!  _West considered, The_ girl doesn't even know he's there! And how did I go from being a champion in her estimation to being a subject in his? Calm down, soldier, at ease, breathe deep and don't give an inch of your ground! You can't stop their crazed plot if you don't get out of here alive and with the better part of your wits about you!_

''… Ulysses Simpson Grant! The Butcher of our Fair Confederacy!'' Liesl went on, oblivious to both men, it seemed; until she turned her darting, dark-bright gaze on James West.   '' You will be Our Courier on that day of Glory! I will lead you to the Butcher, Courier, so that no one can suspect our Purpose.'' She told him almost shyly, as if confessing a girlish dream. '' But when the Butcher comes, when he puts himself into our hands:  Then you will strike him down, even as he cries out in fear and anguish, fear of the Hell to which we send him, anguish as he finally knows our vengeance! And I will see you exact our Glorious Revenge upon him! And I will lay the laurels on your brow! We cannot delay! We cannot, we must not wait on trifles! Shortly he will come out to us. And he will fall into everlasting Perdition!'' 

''Liesly, we are not yet prepared, this subject is not yet prepared for this discussion.'' Aynsley said in a quieter tone, using her childhood nickname, trying to reach her. '' And yet we are closer than ever to the end point of all our endeavors. We must not now lose our best prospects to our passions.''

Abruptly, all her raging gone, the girl looked at Aynsley, as if only now noting he was there, standing between her and their new subject. West didn't dare move his head, his neck and especially not his eyes now. But out of the corner of his left eye, he saw this lunatic girl change from a _maenad_ to a china doll, in a heartbeat. ''Uncle?'' she whispered, blinking and shaking her head as if she just woke from a dream. ''Uncle, when did I come … Did you call me back to the laboratory, Uncle? Did I mislay an instrument? I didn't break another vial, did I, Uncle Stephan?''

''No, Liesly. Nothing is broken or mislaid.'' Aynsley went on in the same gentle tone, as if the living girl beside him had turned to porcelain. '' And I did tell you, earlier that on finishing your lessons you might return briefly to acquaint yourself with the subject. Liesly, This is Sergeant Travis William Madsen from Norfolk, Virginia. Sergeant, this is Liesl Marguerite Branoch, my late sister's youngest child.''

''Sergeant, '' the girl said, turning again towards West.

'' Ma'am.'' He replied, nodding in the general direction of her voice.

'' No, Sergeant, I am not now, and never shall be married.'' She corrected him, nevertheless smiling and patting his hand. ''Therefore you may not call me ma'am or madam. But you have my permission to call me Fraulein Liesl. I like that so much better than Mademoiselle. Our family is of the highest ranking in Austria, you know.''

'' Fro… Frow… Miss Liesl, if you don't mind, I cain't hardly get my mouth around them forin sorta words an' all.'' West told her, thinking it was close enough to being true.

'' I don't mind in the least, Sergeant. May I presume so far as to ask, were you named for the heroic commander of the Alamo, Colonel William Barrett Travis?''  Liesl asked, her color rising again, her face alight.

'' Wah, yes, Miss. Mah Daddy grew up in Texas, but Ma, she brought us all up to Virginia, when Daddy passed on.''  West answered, wondering where this shy, quiet, fragile creature came from, and where the spitfire she'd been only moments ago had gone.

'' Well, that's fine.'' Liesl said. '' Texas is a great, rough country, I've been told, whereas Virginia is full of genteel folk and the finest old families. Sergeant, I feel I must confide something more in you, now. You've been such a gentleman to me, it's only right. ''

'' Yes, Miss?'' the agent asked, wondering if she was about to launch another tirade.

'' My uncle, Sergeant, is a gifted scientist, a brilliant researcher, and a surgeon, too. And his endeavors are greatly significant, and soon to have their well deserved wide renown. But I must not interrupt, or intervene in Uncle's endeavors, Sergeant. And very sad things happen when I forget that rule. Uncle, I feel it only right that I should tell our Sergeant why I cannot visit with him, while he stays here, otherwise I might seem a neglectful hostess. With your kind permission, Uncle?''

''Yes, Liesl. You should. That would be demonstrating an objective, scientific outlook.'' Aynsley said, having no wish to gainsay the girl while she remained this serene.

''Thank you very much for saying that, Uncle. Sergeant,'' she now turned and laid one delicate hand on 'Madsen's' arm, and went on speaking as if she were relating the events of a garden party. '' Sadly, I did intervene in Uncle's endeavors regarding the immediately preceding subject of his work here. The subject involved, the one just before your arrival, was progressing very nicely, you see. And he was a very nice boy from one of my own favorite cities, Charleston. And I wrongly thought I could hold a brief discussion with him. I was quite wrong to do so at just that juncture. Well, I left the laboratory, and unbeknownst to me or Uncle, that nice Charleston boy acquired and smashed one of Uncle's finest beakers. And he cut his throat, his wrists, also, with the pieces, before anyone became aware of it. And, of course, he died. '' 

For a moment, Jim almost wished the spitfire back again. This calm, collected woman-child spoke of a man's torment and suicide as if he were a wren, found dead in her garden! The one was just as mad as the other, and both made the blood freeze in his veins. ''Ah… ah don' know what to tell you, Miss Liesl.'' The agent finally managed to say to her, and it was completely true. '' That must've been turrible hard for y'all.''

''But now you're here, Sergeant!'' Liesl replied brightly, patting his arm. '' And now I must go see what Cook's doing about our supper, Uncle. Then, I will return to my Greek or my German, whichever you think best.''

'' Go back to reading your Iliad, Liesly. We'll read the next passage together, after while.'' Aynsley told her, watching the girl leave and the play of emotions his subject fought to keep from his sharp features. 

When the door closed behind the girl, and her footsteps unmistakably receded down the stairs, Jim West struggled for some calm of his own, swallowed hard and found his voice again.

'' Y'all… All y'all want me t' kill Ulysses Grant?'' he asked hoarsely, avoiding at all costs Aynsley's icy gaze.

'' Liesl does, Sergeant. But she is under my authority, she is my ward. And you must understand something more about my niece, before you judge her, Sergeant. Liesl Marguerite saw her home and family destroyed in the siege and the burning of Atlanta. At that point in time, she was nine years old. '' She has not, and I fear she will not ever recover from those horrors. She thinks only, as you just heard, of vengeance. She sees the world now only in terms of taking revenge on enemies she cannot reach, the higher placed, the more powerful, the better.'' The scientist told West. '' I think only in terms of Justice. And I see a world doubled over in pain from such rank injustices it breaks my heart. And I believe President Grant is allowing a vast injustice, which the Congress labels Reconstruction, to persist, unchecked. And I am only one of many, Sergeant, who hope Mr. Grant can be rationally persuaded to alleviate the legalized persecution of former Confederates, throughout the South. That belief, and that hope are the gist of the message we have in fact sent Mr. Grant many times. We have received not one word from him, however, in response. And so we turn to a different messenger, a different Courier, Sergeant Madsen, still hoping the President simply has not heard our sincere beliefs.''

_But you still haven't said you don't want me to kill the President!_ West thought, trying to pull the puzzle pieces back together. _And you didn't blink an eye, while she talked about a man, a subject here, taking his own life!_ _So how exactly am I supposed to think you're sane, much less honest?_ '' What is it you'd  hev me do, then, seh, in return for ye mendin' up m' eyes?'' West asked, wondering if he wanted or could believe the answer.

'' Your task will be simply to deliver our message once more to the President, Sergeant, and only when you've absorbed the precise form and meaning of our petition. To that end, I will impress our intentions on your memory, so Mr. Grant will hear exactly what we wish he should. We still hope he chooses to respond, to this method, as he has not to others. And if he does, Sergeant, in that sense, you shall be a hero to the Southern Cause, the only cause remaining, the only cause that matters:  that of the living, the widow, the orphan, the suffering ones. '' Aynsley sighed, and stopped a moment, and went on. '' So, you understand it is not Glory or Revenge we hope to achieve by all this. We are merely giving you a plain message to deliver. And, G-d willing, when you have delivered it, we will be given some sign it has been heard. Do you not understand me, now, Sergeant Madsen?

'' No, seh… That is, yes, seh. I understand I'm to learn by rote an' take that there message t' ol' Sam Grant, seh. But you ain't sed yet, what I'm t' do, seh, if'n he won' hear it But that Miss Leesal, seh, she … it does seem as if she meant I am t' kill th' man…'' West complained, knowing he was pushing the other man, needing to know if it was one lunatic or two he needed to deal with here. 

''And I told you, Sergeant, she is not wholly responsible for her words.'' Aynsley said coldly now. ''And I told you, Vengeance is not my object in this, only Justice. Liesl does not and has not ever understood the difference. But I believe you do, Sergeant Madsen. If some untrustworthy accountant had embezzled my niece's inheritance, she would easily get legal restitution. If her home had been destroyed without intent by some cataclysm, she might still be able to receive some recompense. But neither of those trials describes what happened to her home, her family and her inheritance, Sergeant.

 Instead, she was deprived of all those things by means of several congressionally established legal fictions. Instead, her father, a minister in Atlanta and a pacifist to his dying breath, is still marked down as a traitor, and his property confiscated. Instead, her mother, a woman as delicate and refined as Liesly, was driven from her home and left destitute out of doors in a harsh Georgian winter, to die, with her two eldest daughters in what was no more than a vagabond's camp!

 And without recourse at Law, without due process or any wrongdoing on her part, my niece has not the wherewithal with which, in due time we might have restored her understanding. '' Aynsley continued, his voice taking on a knife's edge of icy hatred and fury. Such small justice as that, and due restitution is what I seek for Liesly and all the other orphans of the Conflict. Such simple recourse as they are now denied, is what I request for the widows and parents of our lost sons and brothers. Such small, commonplaces in our society as due process and legal protections, are what I call for.

 And no one anywhere need die to accomplish such slight, such insignificant, such minor goals as mine; if those in power will only prove themselves to be men of reason. Death, as an end result of these endeavors, these experiments of mine, has always been to me a measure of extreme last resort. But I was taught by Jesuit fathers in Zurich as a boy, Sergeant, and I still hold to one of their most famous maxims:  I believe as they do, as you do, that 'the end justifies the means.' Therefore I myself, like you, accept whatever means are necessary to achieve the end I seek, Justice. And as I say, you hold to that belief yourself, do you not? It is a basic tenet in your line of endeavor, is it not?''

''Seh? Umm, Perfesser, seh?'' Jim West asked, stalling, feeling his pretense crumbling.  

''Indeed,'' the scientist went on, in a tone as cold as new steel. '' I should certainly say that if you did not believe this means of degrading yourself in the guise of an indigent, a street beggar are justified by the end of finding out my surgery and my plans, you would not be here now, would you, Major West?'' 

''Doctuh, seh.'' West bluffed, trying to gauge without looking how far he was from the door the girl left by. '' Is there somebody… is there somebody else here, seh? Who's that yore callin' 'West'?''

"You, my fine, 'blind' hero!'' Aynsley shouted, pulling West around on the bench to face him. ''One of your accomplices _came sneaking_ about here nearly a month ago. He left, rather precipitously, though, and not in the best condition, either! I have been in expectation almost daily since then, of one or more of Mr. Gordon's prying colleagues. And here you are.''

''Doctuh.'' West tried one more time, thinking he might try feinting to the taller man's right, as he seemed to be left-handed.

''Enough! I tire of this charade! You know my message now, Major. And you shall carry it! President Ulysses Grant shall indeed accept our message from you, James West! One he would accept from no one else! Oh, yes, he shall receive our message, and so will your colleagues, Major. But not this one, I'm afraid.'' Before West's startled gaze, Aynsley thrust a dead homing pigeon and a crumpled slip of paper. The bird's neck was broken and the capsule on it's leg roughly breached. The message was in reverse-reverse alphanumeric code, and tagged with Jim's customary sign off.

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Jim tried his favorite, 'flanking maneuver' now, rushing around Aynsley, headed for the door. That door swung open and in came a solid dozen ruffians, some of whom West thought sure he'd seen the night he was 'abducted'.

''Boys, boys, I know you'd like me to stay for Easter. But that's two months away.'' The agent quipped, holding both hands up, doing a fairly good impersonation of his friend and partner, and jumped aside as the first two rushed him. ''What if I promise to come back for Easter Vigil, or April Fools Day, or Passover? What if I promise to bring some lady friends?''

''Shut up, ya damn Fed spy!'' Another of the batch snarled, and hurled himself at Jim, as Aynsley stood back from the melee.

just_ like Artie does, when I really get into it. Say! These thugs must be the ones who beat Artemus within an inch! And that's just not kosher, not by me, it isn't _''Alright, alright, boys. I'm not gonna fight all of you.'' Jim insisted, holding up his hands. '' In fact, I only want to fight the ones here who tried to kill my partner. In our line of work, you see, that doesn't look so good. C'mon, c'mon, step up and take your licking like men, whichever you may be! C'mon boys, I'm waiting.  And you may not know it yet, but I did a lot more of that than I ever wanted to, in the Army!'' Jim taunted them and tried a dive and roll trick meant to take them off guard.

'' Well, mebbee you was in th' wrong Army, y' damn turncoat!'' their ringleader chided Jim, grabbing his collar, pulling the agent to his feet, and then trying a vicious haymaker, that would have clocked West, if he hadn't ducked.  ''We heard 'bout you, West. We heard y' grew up in V'ginia! What kinda sorta Southerner goes and takes t' other side in a fight like that?''

'' Oh, just the kind of Southerner General George Thomas is; the man who stopped the Confederates cold at Chickamauga, maybe?'' Jim answered, glowering, to make the man think he'd stung his pride.

''We whupped your Yankees butts good n' proper at Chickamauga!'' another of the thugs called out. ''We chased all y'all back inside Chattanooga and kept you there, most that winter, too!''

'' Yeah, I heard something about that fire-fight, and how Ulysses Grant opened up the cracker line and got the Yankees out of there, and up on Missionary Ridge before Braxton Bragg could blink!'' West told them, still looking for a gap in their line. And there it was to his right, pretty as a picture, two and a half feet wide by four feet tall. The agent laughed and dived again and came up on the smallish landing outside the attic.

''Not  just yet, if you please, Major.'' Stephan Aynsley said, looming over Jim and blocking the staircase.

'' But I don't please, Herr Professor Doctor. And you'll have to break my neck, before you can use me against Ulysses Grant.'' Jim answered, standing up, snarling, defiant, wondering when the thugs would come out here and push him off this perch. ''I do know your message, Doctor. And it's nothing more than a bullet or a bomb, or a knife you somehow think you can control someone well enough, long enough to get to the President. You don't want justice, you want the world to turn back, about sixty or eighty years! You don't want revenge, either, you just want your hands on the reins of power.

And what I know is, Herr Professor Doctor is: It's been tried! And it's never succeeded! And it's my mandate, as I suppose you know, to make certain sure it never does! You don't have a petition, you don't have arguments or suggestions or conclusions for the President to hear. You just have another damnable treasonous plot to assassinate him. And to get that done, you will have to go through me. But not just me, Doctor, the Service has a few hundred other agents going around collecting counterfeiters and stopping traitors, like you, most of whom I trained. So you really ought to be thinking about giving this whole 'endeavor' up, right here, right now.''  

''I'm truly delighted you've again proven yourself such a quick study, Major.'' Aynsley said, and suddenly the air between them was clogged with sharp, pungent, bilious yellow fumes. The gas was burning Jim's throat, and pushing the air out of his lungs, before he could take another step. Choking, losing consciousness Jim collapsed onto the landing, before he could think. Numbed, feeling leaden, he couldn't so much as lift his head from rough boards there.

But he could still hear Aynsley's calm, cold voice, and for another moment, still understand the Austrian's words:

'' Yes, a very quick study. And that will only be to the good in our endeavors. No, do not struggle. Major. Lie quite still, now, or the compound will only take effect more quickly. We have much work ahead of us. And you will need to rest and clear your lungs of my latest compound. That has taken as much as a fortnight in some cases, it does seem some of my subjects were less able to heal from such assaults on their respiratory systems than others.

You seem to be quite vigorously healthy, Major. But you did have not a few serious bronchial infections, as a boy in Virginia, isn't that so? Oh, I nearly forgot, it's much better for you, just now, if you don't try to speak, the most active element in this new compound of mine is quite harsh to the larynx, the trachea and the rest of the upper respiratory tract. Now, as I said, you really must go back to your rooms and rest now, before we begin our grand endeavors in good earnest at long last. Guten Abend, Major West. Sleep well.''


	5. Chapter 5

**Scene Five:** Stephan Aynsley's house south of Baltimore, MD, late spring, 1872

They were starting again. They would not stop now, until 'the proper ends' of their work were realized. They held a man's mind and spirit in their hands and contemptuously, sadistically worked to shatter them both. The shards and scraps left after that devastation would be their tools, their weapons and their building blocks for the mindless, empty creature they sought. To them, that man was no more than another instrument, another tool and they intended, another weapon in their hands. That he breathed and bled and comprehended, was extraneous to their goals. That he walked upright, spoke clearly, and could be made to appear sane and whole, was all they needed. And so they worked, through the end of a winter, to the end of that spring, through that summer and into autumn. They worked to make an automaton under their complete control, out of what had been a man named Jim West.

He'd also been an even-tempered, confident, adamantly loyal person. None of that was what the 'builders' needed. He'd been strong, sure-footed and agile. Those qualities they could use, at least on the surface. They needed only shards and fragments of the man who came to them that winter. They ignored, mocked and humiliated the elements of his nature they couldn't turn to their purpose. They used everything they knew or could learn about this subject, but only against him. They used every method, process, device and drug that came to hand to destroy him. Most of all they tore away his memory, his pride and his every tie to a world they meant him to devastate on their orders. Anything resembling his former reality, his friendships, or kin, his strongest certainties, his deepest held beliefs were trampled, shredded, or corrupted.

Anything that bound the subject to his captors, to their grand schemes and brutal wishes was exaggerated, overblown or intensified. His integrity, compassion and strong sense of duty were derided, disparaged, disdained, so far as to create the polar opposites of those traits, duplicity, hatred and indolence in their places. The summit of these efforts came when their subject fell into genuinely suicidal self-loathing. More than one attempt on his own life was allowed him, to the extent that he lost consciousness, and no further.

They assaulted him in every conceivable fashion, with mental, physical and emotional torture. They cut him off from the slightest human contact, except their own. They took and twisted everything he knew or loved or remembered. He wasn't the man who came to their surgery that winter. He wasn't the man who fought off their every attack for weeks. But he wasn't yet precisely what his tormentors wanted. He'd become their creature, helpless to escape them. He wasn't yet their weapon, fitted to their violent purpose. So they started again, again and yet again.

Determined to rob his captive/subject of identity, genuine memory and his still struggling will, Aynsley used his patterning made up of measures in combination that separately could be seen as treatments, not abuse. He made deprivation, instability, and confinement the permanent conditions of his subject's bizarre existence. Thus, the scientist or his assistants gave the subject no other name or title. He was to them an object, an article, an entity, neither human nor bestial, not as yet. So he became 'the Subject', to his captors, to prevent any sentiment or conscience coming into play. And within a length of time he couldn't measure any longer, he became only 'the Subject' to himself as well.

Other measures used against him ranged from the sophisticated to the crude. He would be allowed no food for several days, and then given meals either nearly spoiled or too rich for his starved system to adjust to. He would be forbidden to speak, and then severely punished for the least sound or syllable or cry that escaped him. He would be forbidden to move off his cot, when he had a cot to move from, and beaten whenever he failed to obey that dictum.

He would be questioned for hours, on matters he had no experience, knowledge or understanding of, then mocked and disparaged for ignorance. He would be sternly instructed not to show any sign of temper, anything resembling humor, or anything of sorrow, surprise or shock. And the slightest indication of these proscribed emotions would be answered with long sessions of utter isolation.

Pain and fear were the only stimuli then wanted his responses to; and soon enough these were all he could react to in any way.  But most of all, because it had given them the results they wanted, the subject was denied any chance to sleep. He would be made to once more heavily blindfolded, thread the room-sized maze his captors demanded he learn by rote. He was forced to recite either nonsense passages or highly technical ones for hours on end and not leave out a word. Failing that measure, the subject would be ridiculed and scorned, and given either progressively more complicated, or progressively more childish passages to learn by heart. And he would be, apparently only for his captor's amusement, oftentimes debased, attacked and abused, as if he were already hopelessly insane.

They already knew he was all but helpless against their various attacks on his mind, his spirit or his person. Now they pressed their assaults on his memory, on his loyalty, and on his strongest affections. Not one of those elements of the man who had been Jim West was left as the old saying goes 'with one stone atop another'. Mesmerism was their main assault weapon against his memories and friendships, and loves. And as their vicious deconstruction of Jim West progressed, he had no more strength to fight off their hypnosis sessions. And as they delved further and further into his psyche, he lost the understanding to tell him Aynsley, Liesl and their collaborators were also using mind-numbing drugs to break his resistance and his will. Their targets in this part of the patterning were the building blocks of mind, identity and character held in their subject's memory. Their secondary goal was the destruction of vital memories from the subject's childhood, adolescence and manhood. Their ultimate intent was to restructure those memories in nightmare fashion, to a new and ruthless purpose.

So Aynsley started each session now, with the subject's most recent, most vivid and most horrific memories of the War nearly everyman of Jim West's generation had fought in. Picking only the darkest, most heartbreaking, most heartrending war memories his subject recounted under mesmerism, Aynsley consistently painted them over as darker, more doubtful, less worthy efforts and campaigns. All the sorrow and remorse and doubts of any soldier, Aynsley distorted, disfigured and overstated, All the grief and waste of war, magnified in the glass of that war of brothers, Aynsley further exaggerated.

Without needing to dig much deeper, the scientist found and darkened each event, each loss, each regret that were only natural responses to warfare. Now they were wrongs, needless carnage, wasting thousands of young lives, in a war of peers, a war of boys, a war largely fought in the countryside West grew up in. Seven Pines, Petersburg's Crater, the Wilderness, Antietam, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Franklin, and Fredericksburg, along with a score of other battles, all rose to be fought over, in the subject's tormented imaginings and nightmares. And now all of them became bloodier, more chaotic, less reasoned, and more horrific than any reality of war.

The subject, far away now from being the man who fought and survived those battles, in short order could not bear the nightmare-War Aynsley created for him. And that was precisely the scientist's hoped for reaction. The subject 'woke' from these mesmeric terrors, screaming louder, feeling guiltier, more confused and more anguished each time. Worse, he woke with more of Aynsley's distortions planted yet deeper in his brain. They were more real than the reality to him, now. He had to believe them, so constantly did they march through his mind with garish colors and painful cries. He had to believe them, Aynsley would allow him nothing else to believe. Pressed beyond endurance, driven beyond reason, exhausted past all limits by these 'visions', the subject who had been Jim West, fought, screamed, and begged for any escape.

And the scientist readily showed him only one, solitary, open path. For the suffering, the horrors, the mockery and injustice of that War to cease, Aynsley insisted, one life and only one must cease. That life stood between thousands of innocents and Justice. That life barred the way to Peace. That one life was by itself so powerfully symbolic of that War and its evils, Aynsley declared, again and again and yet again, that only the annihilation of that one life could end that War and cut off the suffocating evil of Reconstruction. Therefore, Ulysses Simpson Grant must receive a Courier whose message was Death, whose dispatches were Justice. Grant must die, Aynsley announced, so that life could flow again in the South he crushed. Grant must hear the appeal of his victims and then their sentence on him.

 The Butcher must see, he must acknowledge, in the deranged, mutilated person of James West, the horrors he was charged with, the nightmares his life prolonged. But now, in shaping this dread necessity within his subject's mind, Aynsley was amazed to find what first seemed an immutable barrier, an emotional obstruction he could not move. He found, still somehow intact, the loyalty to those who earned it, that was the bedrock of everything James West thought, or acted on, or spoke for. And that loyalty at this juncture in West's life was given to only a handful of people:  including two New Englanders, Thomas Macquillan and Franklin Harper, Jeremy Pike, Jacques D'eglisier, his cousin Jeanny Stuart, Artemus Gordon, Ulysses Grant, and to the memory of his father, Stephen Anthony West.


	6. Chapter 6

**Scene Six**       late spring-early summer, 1872

Finally though, it was Liesl who, when Aynsley had driven himself and his subject to despair working against, fighting against and throwing themselves against West's adamantine loyalty, found a fissure in that bedrock. This was a memory, buried for twenty-eight years, along with Anne Randolph West, Jim's mother. And it only emerged in one of Liesl's sessions, while she went on using mesmerism and drugs to further probe their, by now, half-mad subject. Jim West was barely five years old, this memory revealed, just past his birthday that year when a fire destroyed his grandmother's home outside Norfolk. Asleep upstairs, Anne West died before anyone could reach her. Only Providence, West said himself, kept her son from going up with her, as was their custom. He was just old enough to experience a survivor's remorse for the first time in his life; but just young enough to know a child's exaggerated, misplaced self-reproach. Irrationally, that little boy saw the grief, the anger and despairs all around him, and applied those reactions to his own small self. He, Torry, was somehow to blame for the single worst event of his life.

And in that instant, her hypnosis of West revealed, a lifetime of effort to redeem an irredeemable failure took root and grew. Nearly twenty-eight years passing had largely succeeded in burying that memory, that self-loathing. But it was still there, and it showed up in their session as a chasm separating Jim West from unqualified trust in himself. In the normal way of things, in the world outside Aynsley's attic, that one 'failure' had driven West to prove himself a thousand times over, and do his best work into the bargain. Within those attic walls, under their eaves, it was entirely a different story. And Liesl, when she'd spent several hours exploring that chasm, Jim West's oldest nightmare, worked for another full night, to expand and shore up that self-divide. Then, still wildly excited, she called her Uncle over to the 'enclosure' which housed their subject. For Aynsley she now demonstrated their subject's deepest vulnerability- precisely where his greatest strength obscured it. First, she took a gold filigree ring that had been her mother's, set with a brilliantly faceted, rare type of Ceylonese sapphire, called a padparascha, and slid it onto her right ring finger. Even in the low light of the attic, it gleamed and burned like a miniature bonfire. And precisely that imagery was the key she used once more, to turn the subject's mind.

''Fire.''  Liesl said, slowly, soothingly, her own dark eyes fixed on her deeply mesmerized subject. '' Do you see the fire? There, in the stone. Do you see the fire?''

''Fire.'' He echoed, flatly, thoroughly entranced, now. 

''Yes, fire.'' The girl repeated. '' Look into the fire. Look deeply. See it change and move there? See how it grows? It leaps and sings like a child.''

''Yes, fire.'' He once more echoed. Then, with a new note of tension in his voice, asked.'' Child? Child, in … in the fire?''

''Yes, the child plays with the fire, see?'' Liesl went on. '' Fire warms his face and stings his hands. His face and hands are orange, like the fire. His eyes are two green sparks from the fire. His hair is brown as wood, see? He is a child of the fire. A child of the fire.'' 

'' Child of fire.'' He chanted. ''Child of fire, child of fire.''

''Yes!'' she agreed. '' A child of the flames. See how he leaps and sings and grows?''

'' Grows, grows. Child of fire, child of fire, '' the hypnotized subject rattled on, but his voice took on a knife edged hysteria. '' Fire, fire, grows… fire, fire, fire's child…''

Now Liesl sought to ease the subject's fear. It wasn't needed, yet. She would discard it, she would banish it. '' No, the fire is lovely. See how it lights and shadows everything? The child doesn't fear it? See? He plays in it. And it's beautiful. And the child is beautiful, beautiful. The child of fire is …''

''beautiful, fire's child, fire's child, beautiful.'' Her subject murmured. He was one now with the child of flames he saw so vividly. He reached eagerly for the fire, deep with the faceted stone. He neither knew nor understood that the 'fire' was only the reflection of the small lamp on her desk, there. He only knew a wild impulse grasp, to play, to leap and sing within those flames. And he toppled to the floor of his cage, still scratching at the floor, where his entranced mind saw yet more flames spreading.

''Liesl, this is not to the purpose.'' Aynsley protested. ''Where is this marvel you spoke of? I know the subject has utterly lost his defenses against mesmerism.''

'' But this isn't the end result of my work with him, Uncle!'' the girl cried, tugging on his sleeve when he would have left them.

Aynsley looked down at the subject/creature, still trying to grasp the illusory fire he saw. ''Indeed? Is it not, Fraulein Doctor Branoch? Pray, continue!'' he growled. ''But I have no patience right now for inconsequential, unremarkable mesmeric games, my girl!''

''Thank you, Herr Professor Doctor Aynsley, I shall demonstrate my findings now.'' Liesl laughed and curtseyed, and then knelt beside the subject. He lay avidly rubbing the floorboards, which to his deranged vision were brightly afire, now.

'' Look, see the fire? Now. Look into the fire.'' She instructed. And once more he stared at her ring. ''Are you the child within the flames? Aren't you the fire's lovely child?''

''Fire's child.'' He nodded. ''Child, child in flames, of flames… I … am.''

''And what is your name, Child of fire?'' she asked, with a quick glance at Aynsley.

'' … Name? m' name? … Mees Torry.'' On that admission the creature/subject's voice changed, becoming very young and solemn. His green eyes, wide as two glass jars stared somberly not at Liesl, who was hardly real to him now, but at Aynsley. ''Poppa?'' he whispered. ''Poppa… mees Torry! Mees your Torry, Poppa!''

''Indeed?'' Aynsley asked, sitting back on the bench.

''How old are you, now, Torry?'' Liesl asked, determined to continue her demonstration.

'' 'M five nows!'' the child within the madman answered, with just a note of stung pride. '' Was on' y four, but 'm all five, nows!''

''And were you playing in the fire, Torry?'' Aynsley, accepting the role of Stephen West, asked the child.

'' Ummm… ummm … dunno, dunno, Poppa!'' the child now wailed.

'' Now, Torry, you were playing in the fire.'' Liesl insisted, smiling and twisting the memory out of all shape and proportion. '' You were, Torry. You were playing in the fire. And where did that fire come from, Torry? Where?''

'' Dunno! Dunno! Dint! Dint be playin'… Dunno where dat fire did comed from, Poppa!  Dunno where, Poppa, plees!'' the child screamed in pure terror, reaching for the man who seemed to be his 'Poppa'.

''Hush.'' Aynsley intervened between the girl who began to laugh, harshly. '' Hush, Torry. Sit here. Sit there a moment and be quite, quite still.''

'' Mees weel, Poppa. Torry weel.''

''Very well, now, as for your work, Fraulein Doctor. It is well done. And now, I will relieve you of your watch. Leave us, Niece. ''

The girl opened her mouth, no doubt, Aynsley thought to remonstrate with him. But he said nothing more, only lifting one heavy eyebrow. Liesl frowned, then nodded and finally obeyed him, for once, leaving the attic.

''Now, then Torry.'' The scientist said, turning back to the nightmare-trapped child/man.

'' Tell me. You must tell all about the fire. Now, Torry. Why does it frighten you so? You must tell me.'' 

'' Ummm… yes, Poppa. '' the child sniffled and swallowed another sob. '' Poppa … Torry…ummm mees warn't playin' wif any dat fires, Poppa. Warn't neether! Mees dint, Poppa! Mees dint nevver play wif dat ol' fire. Plees, dint, Poppa! ''

''Torry, you must as I just said, you must tell me all about the fire. Where was the fire?''

The child started to shake his head and beg off. But this powerful, demanding voice was never to be disobeyed, ever. Now, even though the nightmare's fear shook him harder than malaria, he answered.

'' It were on'y in dat straw, Poppa. It were in dat gud new straw, Poppa. All shiny an' sweet an' piled up all high in dat barn, Poppa, Gra' Poppa's ol' barn  Torry warn't playin', Poppa! Warn't!  Warn't ever, ever playin dere, Poppa. An' Gra' Poppa, he sed dat a little lamp fell in th' new straw, an' made dat fire an it licked up th' new straw an jumped … whoosh! It woked mees up, Poppa. Warn't playin' was all asleepin! An Gra' Poppa he carried Torrys down th' porch steps, all to th' yard, den, Poppa… ''

'' Your Grand-Poppa carried you out of the house, is that what happened, Torry?'' Aynsley, still keeping a calm tone, despite his own inner exhilaration at this turn of events.

''Yeah, uh-huh.'' The child nodded, biting at his lower lip, and trembling.

''And what then, what happened, Torry? What frightened you? You must tell me.'' Once more Aynsley insisted.

'' Was prett many much skeeredy, Poppa, ev' body did run out th' doors an stay in th' yard, den… An dat fires it knocked ev' thing down, Poppa. Th' sheds come down, an' th' fence comed down an' th' biggest ol' hollow oaktree, it falled down, all on th'… on th' chimblee..

An' was all many much mixdied up, den an was ev' body out th' door an' den Torry dint see mees momma! Dint sees her dere, Poppa, Dint! An' was so very many much skeeredy den, Poppa! '' Tears streamed down the child's face now, he was coming closer to the worst part of the true memory, and the twisted, distorted path Liesl had set parallel to it.

"' You didn't see your mother out in the yard? She wasn't there, you say? Where was she?'' Aynsley pressed him. ''Where was your mother, then, Torry?''

The child shook his head, now, in abject pleading and denial. '' Dunno, Poppa, plees, dunno!''

''I see. Well, Torry, your mother went up to sleep, early that night. So she must have been upstairs when your Grandfather carried you outside, isn't that so?''  Aynsley asked, relying on a source he knew to be an eyewitness.

''Yeah, uh-huh. Poppa, ev' body was so many much skeeredy, Torry was so many much skeeredy… an' Gra' momma she sed, come go in th' carij, Torry, come on an' weel go down to Jimmy's house, now. An' wees did be goin' an' Torrys dint wanna go wifout mees momma. An' mees sed Gramma, cain't Torry wait to go wif mees momma? An' Gramma was all saddy den an cryin' an den was so many baddy noise, Poppa… dat ol hollow oak, it falled down an th' chimblee falled down an th' rooof falled down, den an den th' steps in-side, falled down…""

'' Yes, that's right, Torry. The steps that went right up to your mother's room, caught fire and fell with a truly terrible noise. And your mother's room was right there, wasn't it, right at the top of those steps, wasn't it, Torry?. So now there were no steps to go up to her room, and none for her to come down again, either. The steps fell, Torry. And what happened after that?'' the Austrian went on pressing the child/man's every conceivable weak point.

He was fascinated as the process his patterning techniques, and a mad girl's mental gambit set in motion, sped on, now, almost as if it too were a living entity, almost as if it now lived and breathed and rushed on, of it's own volition. The child/man sitting before him, cross legged on the floor, was shuddering, almost convulsing , as if his starved frame sought to mirror the devastation going on within him; mind, spirit, and heart. He was struggling, visibly, gesturing and ducking and sliding himself back across the cage, as if to keep something horrific at bay. And he was clearly losing that struggle, moment to moment now.

''Torry, answer your father. Answer me. What happened at your grandmother's house after the steps in the front room burned and fell, that night?  Look at me, and tell me what happened when you knew the stairs were gone?''

The bright green, feverish gaze came up to his false-father's face again.  And for a single instant, Aynsley thought the subject, or the man himself, would reemerge to beg off from this nightmarish session. To fend off that potential the Austrian kept hammering at the child-mind Liesl's destructive work revealed to him.

''Torry, you know you mustn't disobey your father. And Torry, you know you mustn't lie to me, either. Now we are talking about the fire at your grandmother's house. And you will go on, now, Torry, telling me all that happened.''

Gulping and blinking at his own tears, the child/man nodded miserably and took up the awful narrative again. '' It made th' mos' awfully loudes' noise, Poppa when dem steps camed down. An ev' body was kinda hollerin' an' yellin' an ev' body was so many much skeeredy den. An Torry, mees runned back more in th' yard an' mees startin' in t' yellin', for Momma, for Momma to come on out.  An' mees yelled 'Momma, Momma, Torry's no up th' stairs, Momma! Torry's in' th' yard, Momma! Torry's in th' yard! Come on out, nows, Momma, come on out, nows! Torry's no up dere, Torry's in th' yard! And mees warn't posed to be yellin' , Poppa, mees knowed dat, it was veryiest naughty…to be yellin' But was so very many much skeered, den!

An Gramma, she sed, now, come aways, Torry-little, nows you come on aways, we'll go down th' hill to Jimmy's, we'll just ride down th' hill, Come away Torry-little.

' An den Torrys was so veryiest bad an' bad, Poppa. An' mees veryiest sorry mees was… mees hollered on Gramma, den, mees shook m' head an' hollered on her so very bad an' bad… No, Gramma! No, Gramma! Torrys cain't go down th' hill, Torrys cain't go 'on 'ways wifout hims Momma! Mees wants mees Momma! Mees wants mees Momma nows! An Gramma she dint be maddy wif Torrys-Torry, an Torrys was so very many much bad an bad, an 'm sorry… An' Gra' Poppa, him picked Torrys Torry up 'gen an him hugged on Torry whole, whole lot an. Hims shirt an' hims face was all wet, den, Poppa, hims beard an' face an all was wet… An Gra' Poppa him sed, Torry-little, we're goin' on down to Jimmy's an' thats what your Momma wants you to do, right now, Torry. So, you're going to mind your Momma, like a good boy does, aren't you, Torry-boy?''

''And were you a good boy that night, Torry?'' Aynsley as Stephen West asked, very quietly and coldly, now.

Bright eyes fixed on his tormentor-father's face, the child wept and wordlessly shook his head.

''So, Torry, were you playing in the stables? Were you playing that evening, before supper, out in your Grandfather's stables, the way you knew you weren't supposed to do?''  The Austrian asked, knowing he was presenting a complete falsehood to the child-mind. His source had confirmed for him, during their research on James West that the deadly fire started in a crowded garret, next to Anne West's room. But with the disintegration going on before his eyes, the scientist knew he had to pull out all the stops on this instrument, to achieve his nightmare goals. Impossibly, the child's wide green eyes grew yet wider at these questions. His mouth worked, as if ready to deny this awful suggestion. His eyes betrayed increasing bewilderment. The man's mind, which could have exposed the lie in an instant, was in complete organism failure, hardly alive. The subject's mind which might have at least debated the conclusion, was similarly in it's own end-stage. Only the child-mind still functioned, and the fact that it was reliving events of so many years ago, only helped cloud and distort long buried doubts.

''Come, come! Torry, you know you must answer me. You know you mustn't tell me even the slightest lie, or the smallest fib. You're not an infant any longer, Torry. You're not a babe in arms. And a big boy never lies to his father, does he?  Answer me now, Torry. Weren't you playing in the new straw, out in the stables that night, just before your suppertime?'' Aynsley asked, twisting the question, like a knife in the child-mind.

'' … Mees… mees… Poppa, plees. Poppa, Torry… plees, Poppa, No be maddy wif your Torry nows!  No be maddy wif …mees. Don' go 'ways from your Torry little, Poppa! Don' be maddy wif mees…''

''Then finish telling me what you did, Torry. Finish telling me what you did, that evening.'' The sham-father Torry saw as all too real and shocked and bitterly angry now, demanded.

'' Poppa, mees … mees… did Torry go a playin' in th' yard den, Poppa?'' the child asked, longing for a denial.

'' Yes, Torry. You did. Your mother said you might play in the dooryard for a short while. But Torry, you didn't stay there, in the dooryard, did you?'' Aynsley asked, leading his tormented prey towards a far worse conclusion than the reality of Anne West's death already was. ''You were told to stay in the dooryard outside the kitchen, where your mother could see you playing. But you disobeyed her, Torry. You were terribly disobedient that evening, Torry. You went over to the stable doorway. You walked over to the stable doorway and saw the hayrick and the haystack there. Didn't you, Torry?''

'' Was dis'bedien… Poppa.'' The child said in a frightened, exhausted tone, his shoulders slumping, his whole affect lost. ''Was.''

''Yes, Torry. You disobeyed your own mother that evening. You went to the stable, as you were never supposed to do, not by yourself. You saw all the new straw just brought in for the horses. And despite knowing you were never supposed to play in the stable, Torry; that is precisely what you did. Isn't it, Torry?''

'' Is, Poppa.'' The child nodded, baffled by what were two entirely separate memories. One of the fire that destroyed his grandmother's house and killed his mother; the other of being allowed to walk, sometimes, to the stables with a grown person, and the excitement of seeing the horses and all the busy-ness of a horse-breeder's place of work going on.

''And the fire started while you were playing there, Torry. And the fire swept from the stable  to the hollow oak next to it, to the corral, and to the roof of your grandmother' s house. And all that happened, after you knocked a lantern over in the stables, Torry. And while everyone was having supper, that fire had all the time it needed to go utterly out of control. And after supper, before anyone saw or smelled the smoke, your mother went up stairs to her room.

 And once the fire you started destroyed the roof and the attic, and the steps in the front room, she had no escape. She couldn't come to us, and we couldn't go to her. And you didn't go to bed with your mother that night, Torry. And you were carried to safety by your Grandfather. But your mother was never carried to safety, Torry. Instead, because of the fire that started when you knocked a small lantern over in the stables, your mother died. And all this while, Torry, all this while, you never told anyone, ever how that fire truly began. And it began because you were disobedient, Torry, terribly disobedient. Didn't it, Torry. Answer me, now.''

''Did, Poppa.'' The child whispered, rocking and shaking. '' Did.'' The child stared at his pseudo-parent. And while he stared, eyes, mind and spirit all fixed on Aynsley's face, the Austrian kept his features impassive, his expression cold, and his manner distant. But he said not a word. And the voiceless, steel grey eyes of the man watching the child so grimly were imprinting their gaze on his shattering mind. The chasm Liesl found was now a river canyon between them; and in the child's mind, between himself and his father, again. An appalling reality from nearly thirty years before, was now a monstrous offense, a patently unforgivable wrong, an irredeemable catastrophe.

Shivering, shaking his head, and weeping the child's remorse inundated any trace of the grown man's understanding. The single worst night of his youth was recurring all around him. There was no path, no window, no doorway out. And the person who'd taken the role of his father sat watching without a scrap of human feeling. _The blame was his_, after all. And his father, still alive in the child's mind, long deceased and unreachable in fact, hated him for it. The silence between them was an accusation, an indictment, a condemnation. Weeks and months of fighting, denying, struggling was nothing compared to years of lying, his shattered adult mind told him. The child-mind, though, only saw ''his father's'' bitter rejection and took it like a knife blade in his mind, in his heart, and finally, in his broken spirit.

For one impossible moment, the subject sensed the wreckage of his former self, staring with him and Torry across that renewed, rebuilt chasm. They were alone and cut off, as never before. They were to blame for the nightmare that shaped their whole life. And the cold gaze across that abyss still knew their only escape route. To even attempt to redeem their awful transgression, they would have to walk a faultless path, one patterned for them by their tormentors. There was no other path for them.  They screamed, then, all together, and went on screaming with the last of their voices and the last of their reason until both were exhausted. Then they split apart as deeply as the gorge between that remorseful child and his shocked, grieving father. There was no James Torrance West. There was no Subject. And a boy barely five years of age had just collapsed into darkness, in the icy cold around him. An empty eyed, nearly mindless, empty hearted automaton now stared blankly back at Aynsley, in their place.

Smiling grimly, the Austrian only now reached across to welcome his long awaited weapon.

'' Courier.'' Aynsley said, touching the new made being's shoulder.

'' Sir?'' His creation asked.

'' Go to your cot now, and rest. We have a great many details yet to ponder and set to rights. But, we have our grand endeavor well in hand, at long last. Your feet are finally set on their faultless path.''   

''Yes, Sir.'' The new-wrought entity nodded once and obeyed him.

''And now, now, as I promised you, Sister, as I swore on your grave and the graves of your husband and daughters; now the Reckoning begins.'' Aynsley murmured to himself and to the spirit of his late sister Marguerite Elise Aynsley Branoch, Liesl's mother.

''Bravo, well done, old friend.'' An icy, thin, clear voice said, from the recesses of the attic laboratory. ''The girl may have tripped him up, but you sent him sprawling into oblivion. ''

Aynsley only half turned to glance at the tall, barrel-chested figure in the shadows. '' With the data on the night in question you supplied, old friend.'' Aynsley said. '' We have accomplished in two nights what we had not done in two years time.''

''Well, with that data, and the preparation for this role our Candidate received from you, during the Conflict; I felt sure our success would only be a matter of time and your determined application.'' the half-seen man, one Remiel Julien Boudin of Atlanta, demurred.

''And now we will have our Reckoning with the Butcher! Exactly as we swore to do.''

  '' As we swore to do. '' Aynsley repeated. ''There is no other path for any of us, now.''


	7. Chapter 7

**Scene Seven             **Aynsley's house / August , 1872

Courier's preparations for his one and only mission now were only in Aynsley's hands. Liesl, it appeared found this broken amalgam, as she called him, disturbing, and not particularly heroic, either. She had her own studies, and her own 'details' to see to. She told Aynsley she would be glad for a time to leave the laboratory to him and his creation. Aynsley heartily agreed she should go back to her Greek, her Italian, her calculus and her drawing lessons.

A mind reduced to a child's was shattered. A heart strained past exhaustion was broken. And a spirit with its oldest wound reopened, was bleeding to death, with no one to stop it. Aynsley had no interest in and no intention of mending any of those past elements of his former subject. Instead he set to work within hours to make a gorge of the fissure Liesl found, and a fatal wound of a twenty eight year old scar.

So it was a mindless, heartless, literally dispirited organism Aynsley formed from the remnants of a man, a child and a creature. This new being looked, sounded and moved as James West had. But he reacted, spoke and even thought only as Aynsley demanded. All the elements that formed the whole man; mind, memory, heart and will were crippled, mutilated and sternly controlled by Aynsley's commands. Everything the man, the child and the subject had known, learned or felt was grist to the mill of Aynsley's purpose. No other reality, no other purpose existed for the Courier, and Liesl had been right to say he, too was broken. This new entity, walking around in the physical form of Jim West was entirely mad.

And as he terribly altered his creation, with a hundred particulars, Aynsley changed himself, as well. To ensure the success of his 'endeavors', the Austrian went back to make use of the nightmare coincidence Liesl's mesmeric meddling uncovered. He brought Courier, his creation, to the point seeing a rejecting/blaming father-authority figure in each of four key individuals from this sham-West's supposed life. And from them, Stephen West, Stephan Aynsley, Ulysses Grant and Artemus Gordon, the one of them Aynsley most closely resembled, another amalgam was implanted in Courier's sensibilities. 

Aynsley meticulously patterned Courier, his heartless, mindless caricature of Jim West to go first of all to a telegraphically arranged meeting with Gordon. There, he would stay just long enough do and say just enough to stir the actor-agent's fears and suspicions. And from Gordon, Courier would go straight to a meeting with the President. He would refuse to meet with any others of Thomas Macquillan's team, especially that senior agent, who'd known West longest. On reaching the President, the final, lethal, pattern of loyalty, honor, and filial love, all disastrously rejected would play out to its 'proper ends.'  And now they were ready, at long last. And now Courier came to Aynsley's summons, in the downstairs surgery where all the candidates for his post first entered the play.

'' You are now my Courier.'' Aynsley instructed, taking Courier through one more complex, emotional/psychological maze.

' I am Courier'' the entity replied.

"You will deliver our vital petition to Ulysses Grant." Aynsley instructed . 

''Deliver vital petition.''  Again the laboratory created being echoed.

''Tell me, then, Courier, what you will say to Ulysses Grant?" Aynsley asked.

"Mr. President. I have come to you today as a special courier for the Society of Loyal Confederate Veterans and their Survivors. They petition you, Sir, to call a halt to the suffering being inflicted on your now loyal Southern citizens, by the injustices and corruption of the policy known as Reconstruction. They declare themselves entirely loyal to the government, and to you, Mr. President. They sent me, Mr. President, as your protégé and your aide, and as someone deeply honored to be your friend, Sir, to deliver their petition and request your response.

I agreed, Sir, having heard their deep devotion to the continuation of the great land that gave us all birth, into the undoubtedly brilliant and commanding future that is Her true destiny. I cannot remain longer than necessary for you to read their petition and draft your response, Sir. Here it is, Mr. President. Will you read it now, Sir?" Courier recited.

''That is well learned, Courier. Having prefaced your mission in that way, you will next persuade Grant to reply. '' The Austrian told him.  

"Persuade him to reply." Blankly, the automaton repeated.

 '' If the recipient demurs, you will then insist on a reply.'' The scientist also insisted.

''Insist on reply.'' Courier echoed.

'' We know his response will be negative, all arguments to the contrary not withstanding. Therefore, you will next make clear your reasons for bringing this petition to him. '' Aynsley continued, watching his creation, making certain no step was missed, no nuance suggested.

'' Make clear my reasons.'' Again the controlled being responded.

''Yes. You will reiterate that you are only a Courier, for those suffering from great injustices'. The Austrian said, seeing no evidence of any other entity within the one he'd built. There was none to see, he was certain. And he was right.

'' Great injustices.' The echo came again.

''Correct. You will demur, and courteously indicate you are unwilling to say more.'' Aynsley told him.

'' Unwilling.'' Courier nodded.

'' He in his turn will persuade you, Courier. And you will slowly, reluctantly describe to him your siege of sleeplessness, your growing doubts, your terrible memories, and your great despair at the way the Conflict has affected you _and so many others_. Aynsley dictated.

'' So many others.''  Courier echoed.

''Correct, again. Lastly, having revealed all this, Courier; you will draw your weapon, not on Ulysses Grant, but on yourself. You will raise the revolver to your own forehead. He will attempt to wrest it from you. And you will then, and only then fire your revolver. You will fire it once and once only, at close, if not at point blank range.'' The Austrian instructed, giving Courier the most critical of his orders.

''Fire, once only. at close range.'' The automaton replied.

''Then you will leave him, using your memorization of his quarters, allowing no one to thwart your departure. You will exit the site of your mission. You will approach no one.'' The Austrian insisted.

'' Approach no one.'' Courier repeated.

'' The one already prepared to fulfill your destiny will await you, Courier. And you will welcome your true destiny's fulfillment, will you not, Courier?'' Boudin now asked, from the shadows of the attic.

'' Welcome my true destiny's fulfillment, yes.'' The created being nodded.

'And what is that true destiny to be, Courier?'' the Georgian asked. This was another of his contributions. He had waited years to hear it spoken by the proper candidate-assassin.

''I will be a true and eternal Southron hero. I will redeem all my past errors and betrayals. I will prove myself to my people, as the Illustrious Southron Liberator. I will be known forever as the Southron Achilles, achieving a great victory for all Southrons; but choosing Lasting Glory over Length of Days. And having made that Hero's Choice, I will lay down my life freely, at those hands of the one chosen for that compassionate role. I will lay down my life for my people's Honor, for their Sake, and for their Posterity. I will keep my oaths. I will never allow myself the Dishonor of the enemy's corrupt courts or prejudiced laws, their heinous prisons or their places of shameful execution. And the one chosen to fulfill my true destiny will understand that, and act accordingly.'' Courier recited. 

''Very well said, Courier.  Go back to your memorization of the site, again. '' Aynsley instructed.

'' Yes, Sir.'' The create entity answered and mindlessly obeyed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Scene Eight**

And now, we have only one further step to take, a precaution, only." The Austrian told his creation.

"A precaution, only." Courier echoed.

"Liesl, come to me." Aynsley called. The frail, black draped, girl was instantly at his side. Her eyes were two wells of darkness and brilliant with excitement. "Liesl, hold out your hand. Show him the sapphire. "The flashing, fiery stone caught and held Courier's gaze at once He was instantly entranced.

"Fire." Courier muttered, automatically.

"Yes, fire. You will carry the fire with you, Courier, and when you see the fire again, you will forget all that was said or done here, from the moment you came within these walls. You will remember nothing. You will forget all, as if it never was, except the fire. And if you forget the fire, Courier. You will be lost beyond hope of recall. You will wander the boundaries of oblivion, where I found you. Therefore, Courier, you will forget." The Austrian warned his creation.

"Forget." Courier responded.

"All but the fire." Julien Boudin added, once more taking up his role in the automaton's preparation.

But this icy voice triggered a very different response. Suddenly Courier found himself seeing a place and time he did not know, from West's eyes. "I am… Courier/Jim heard himself saying in a memory he couldn't place. I was a soldier…I am…I was and officer…and there are rules, there are oaths, there are conventions and traditions we must …we have to uphold… We have to. We can't…go against…we can't…I can't…I tried…I tried…and I can't…" He was speaking just barely aloud, but caught, trapped in a memory he didn't recognize, by the Georgian's entrance into the present nightmare.  . "I've defied, you, I know, I've defied, you and I …can't…I tried…and I can't …"

''Courier! '' Aynsley called out harshly, as the automaton visibly struggled with a moment from West's past Aynsley and Boudin both knew very well. It was something out of their war-time search for a Courier-candidate. ''Courier, you will not, you cannot step from the faultless path! Return to it, and immediately! Therefore, Courier you will forget, all but the fire.''

" All but the fire." Courier echoed, relieved to have his creator resume control.

"If you begin to remember, Courier, there is a final precaution. Tell me what that last precaution against betrayal is, Courier '' Aynsley asked.

The One must be at all times and under all conditions protected. The One who set our Great Work and all our Endeavors in motion must never be … betrayed. The One who is at the core, at the center, at the heart of our Great Work and all our noble plans must not be betrayed to our Great Enemy, ever!  Thus we will not speak, or allow his name ever to be spoken. We will not by word or sign or action give any acknowledgment of his presence at the core of The Great Work.  That is forbidden, now and forever.

And this is the way in which the One for whom all the Great Work is set in motion will be forever protected:  If I remember what is forbidden, I must die. If I remember what is forbidden, I will gladly die rather than betray. Rather than betray the One, I will die. If I remember what is forbidden forever I must die. Rather than betray, I will die. If I am in any danger whatever of betraying the One, I must die.

"How, Courier? How will you die?" Boudin, the One in question, an old backer of Aynsley's methods and 'research', avidly asked the created entity.

"By my own hand, by my own means, and without hesitation, I will die, rather than betray. '' Courier replied. ''There is no other option, no other choice to be made if I am to walk the Faultless Path.''

"From here, you take your hired rig and drive to Baltimore. At the Bridgeport Hotel, you will meet with your colleague, Mr. Gordon.'' Aynsley instructed.

 ''Gordon.'' Courier echoed, straining for the sketchy memory Aynsley gave back to him.

'' Artemus.''

 "Yes, Artemus Gordon. You will wait at that location, until the date and time of your meeting with Grant. You will allow him to note that you are restless, tired, frustrated by your latest, fruitless efforts, and impatient to see Grant. The President expects you and your report.

And that report is most urgent.'' The Austrian continued, watching as Courier made no reaction whatever to this first reference to West' colleague, in months. That was exactly what his patterning demanded.   '' But you will not allow Gordon or anyone to say you are impaired, to say you are ill, and thus prevent your meeting. For that reason as well as it being part of your orders, Courier, you will not agree to see or talk to those of your colleagues with medical training; Those would be Jacques D'eglisier for the most part, but also to a lesser extent, Pike and Macquillan. Nothing must prevent your meeting Grant. It is your highest duty and privilege to report to him directly on what you have learned. ''

"Not sick, not ill at all, a little tired; haven't slept well. Bad dreams. But nothing to worry about… urgent, vital meeting with Grant… expected to meet, urgent I report. Duty, and privilege.'' Courier said, shuddering.

" Now, Courier, come here once more, look at Liesl's ring. Look deeply. Do you see the fire within the stone?"  Boudin asked.

Courier's eyes widened. He was once more caught in the ring's blazing light. "Fire." he murmured, lost again in those fiery depths.

"From this moment, Courier, you will forget this place, this surgery, and all that passed here. You do not know my name, nor do you recall my face. You have no recollection of my colleagues or me. For example, you have never seen this young woman, never in your life." The Georgian demanded.

"Never seen, I've never seen this young woman, in my life." Courier agreed, blinking in confusion at Liesl Branoch.

"From this moment, you are James Torrance West, Federal agent, who has been searching for the killers of street beggars in Washington, without success. You found, instead, quite a number of former Confederates, who gave you a petition, and a message, which Grant must hear." Boudin coldly insisted.

"Grant must hear." The automaton answered

''Correct. From this instant, you are Major James Torrance West, late of the Army of the Potomac, retired.  Like so many of your comrades, you remember the horrors of the late War of Secession, vividly. And of course, you wish only for those horrors, and thus the War itself, to finally, finally end." Aynsley finished.

"I want that war to finally, finally end! TO END! " Courier repeated, locked into Stephan's patterning once and for all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Scene** **Nine** Baltimore, MD, September 1872

Courier, hidden behind a living façade constructed for his impersonation of James West, walked into the Bridgeport Hotel on the morning of September 3rd.  A meticulously worded wire had been sent to West's partner, Artemus Gordon, saying only that 'West' would arrive there, early in the month. Registering, Courier asked and was told Artemus Gordon was already at the hotel, in Room 282. Now the most rigorous testing of his patterning outside Aynsley's laboratory would begin, with pitfalls and bear-traps everywhere he stepped. Technically, the agents were expected to spend the next week and a half in Baltimore, preparing for the President's meeting with local politicos and regional leaders. But as Courier picked up his valise and strode across the hotel lobby, something decidedly outside his patterning happened.

''Jim! Jim!'' Artemus Gordon shouted, hurrying down the long, central staircase towards Courier. Grinning from ear to ear, the actor-agent pulled Courier/West into an embrace and then pulled back to welcome and to rebuke him. '' You look like ten miles of bad road in winter! Where in the Sam Hill have you been, man? Why didn't you wire anyone, until now? Why haven't we heard one peep from you, since the middle of March, for G-ds sake?''

''Artemus, calm down! I've just been up to my neck in crocodiles!  And all them usually looked at me like I was dinner. And all of them were watching me, pretty much around the clock.'' Courier explained, reaching for the set questions and answers part of his constructed self. They're a really, really nervous bunch of crocodiles, I can tell you. And I did send a whole haggle of wires. Nobody got them?'' Courier's briefings from Aynsley included the fact that several telegrams were sent to his colleagues, above the signature of James West.

'' As a matter of fact, no. Well, not any since March. And those were to say the least, brusque, my friend. Never mind that for now. Who 's this nervous bunch of crocodiles? Who have you been with, Jim? And why in the devil aren't you answering my questions?'' Gordon demanded.

This reaction was within Courier's patterns, and he favored the older man with half a crooked smile. '' Well partly because you're not letting me get a word in edgewise, partner.''

'' And partly what else, James?'' the actor-agent demanded.

'' Not partly, mostly.'' Courier said, turning around to scan the lobby. '' We're in a kind of public place for this kind of discussion, aren't we?''  
             

 ''Oh, oh, right. C'mon then. We'll go back to the rooms and send down for room service while you get cleaned up and I get those answers.'' Artie suggested.

''Sure, Artemus, sure. '' Courier nodded. '' But I have a question too. Where is everyone else? Why wasn't Mac down those steps ahead of, or right behind you? Why isn't Jacques standing here, right this minute, giving me my yearly health examination and the what-for? And I don't see Jeremy, or Frank or the Colonel either. So, what's going on, partner?''

'' Well, mostly none of them are supposed to be here till at least the end of this week, if not later.''

''And partly what else, Artemus?'' Courier asked, echoing the agent's question.

''Well, let me see. Jere and Frank were still looking for you, down around Raleigh and then trying all the way down to N'Orleans, until they got my wire telling them about yours. They'll be back here, and on your case, by next week. Jacques is on his way to Mon'real, to take care of his niece's inheritance, the way he does every year. And we practically had to chain him to that northbound train, too, Jim, or he would be here, right now, reading you the riot act.

Colonel Richmond and Mac are still down in the District, although Mac was saying he'd have to go down to Norfolk sometime real soon now. And I suppose you can guess, James, that he was planning that trip about as reluctantly as possible, because he'd be seeing your relatives down there, to tell them we still hadn't found you!   And Mac will be here, as soon as possible, James, and he will be reaming you a new one, at that time, you can bank on that!. And the Colonel wired me back, when my wire reached him, saying on no account should you be let out of my sight until he can call you on the carpet, personally!''

''But the President's meeting.'' Courier asked, showing the 'proper concern' for their assignment. '' That's still being held here, isn't it? That's still on schedule, isn't it?''

'' Yes, unfortunately.' Gordon sighed, turning towards the lift as it came back to the lobby. '' The Man wouldn't hear of missing this meeting with the Governor and legislators here. And believe me, Jim, I did my utmost to convince him that there might be something chancier than usual going on, these days. ''

 '' But why would you say that, Artemus?'' Courier asked, following Gordon. His patterning indicated the older agent would suspect any and all parts of his/West's reemergence.

'' Well, maybe because one of the President's chief security advisors, who happens to be a damn-fool young friend of mine, by the way, went missing for the better part of eight months, and that's only counting from March! '' Gordon growled.

''But I'm back, now. So, stop worrying.'' Courier suggested.

''Yeah, sure, easy for you to say, apparently.'' Gordon muttered, scowling. ''I'm just a little bewildered by your behavior, partner.''

'' And why would that be?'' Courier half smiled. The patterning meant for Gordon to be perplexed. He was still on the faultless path.

'' Because you've never done this kind of undercover work before, James m'boy. And yet you insisted, according to what Frank tells me, on taking on this 'costume-drill' as you always used to call it, instead of him, or Jere, or even Jacques. And then, you disappear from the surface of the earth, without so much as a breadcrumb to show us your path. And now, out of a blue sky, you turn up again!'' Artie went on, listing 'West's' transgressions.

'' Like a bad penny, Artemus?'' Courier asked, as they both stepped off the lift. ''Where are the rooms? And where are the baths? I could really use one, before dinner. Oh and be sure to order up a whole lot of dinner, I'm famished. ''

''The rooms are down this way to the left. And don't you mean supper, Jim? It's nearly four o'clock.'' Artie asked, puzzled by the younger man's usage.

'' Is it? No wonder I'm hungry, and bushed!'' Courier said, turning to stride down the corridor Gordon pointed out. 

'' Did you lose your grandfather's pocket watch, James? Or did you think to leave it with Frank, before you went out?'' Artie asked, frowning again, and following 'Jim West'. 

This was on the periphery of the patterning, Courier realized but still available to him. '' No, of course I left it with Frank. The way it's inscribed; it could have given me away to the bad guys. Besides, Grandfather would reach down from Glory and paddle me good, if I lost his gold watch.''

'' Alright, here's the room, and there's the gentleman's bath.'' Artie told him when he stopped in front of a numbered door, and pointed to a larger door with a sign above just down the hall. ''What do you want first, Jim, food or a good scrubbing?''

'' Well, food, I'd say. But I'm carrying about a mile of those ten you mentioned around with me. So, I'll go on and wash up.'' Courier answered, pulling on a rendering of one of West's trademark grins. ''Get lots of food, Artemus. Lots.''

''Sure, James. Hey, wait a darned second, there.'' Artie said as the younger man was walking towards the bath.

'' What's wrong now?'' Courier asked, searching for any error he might have made.

'' Oh nothing, partner, except you didn't say who's paying for all this food.'' Artie told him, cocking his head and waiting 'West's' answer.

''That's easy. We're here on the government's dime, aren't we? Well, this can go on their accounts, too. We're not here on vacation, after all. We're working now. And, at any rate they can better afford it. They've still got all the gold in Fort Knox and the Denver Mint, after all, don't they? Relax, will you, Artemus? Everything is right on schedule.'' Courier said, and stepped into the gentleman's bathing room.

 ''Everything is right on schedule?'' Artie repeated, scratching his head as he opened the door to suite 282, and walked inside.  ''What in the very devil does that mean?'' The phrase and a handful of other things about 'West' were perplexing the actor-agent badly. Keeping to his word, he sent a huge dinner order down the pneumatic tube system for the hotel restaurant, and only then, strode down the hall to the bath.

'' Artemus, what is the matter?'' Courier asked, turning towards the door. '' You don't look nearly as glad to see me now, as you did, coming down that staircase.''

''No, no, I'm delighted to see you, James. Well, maybe not as much of you as I could see right now if I took another step or two. But you've really got to answer at least a couple questions for me. Because if you don't. I'm liable just ...implode from pure frustration, at this point.''

''And we cannot have that.'' Courier nodded, his meaning literal. Gordon's continued survival was a key element of his patterning; with the sole caveat that no one would be allowed to prevent 'West' reporting to Ulysses Grant.

''Yeah, right. Who'd clean up the mess?'' Artie sighed. ''Alright, now I've got you as a more or less captive audience, James… Let me ask you this:  Do you realize we've all been searching every inch of ground between Boston and N'Orleans, and between the Chesapeake Bay and the Ohio river south of Cincinnati for you? Do you realize that in the last eight months we've checked in every morgue, every hospital, hospice, and clinic for you? And let's not even go into how many flop houses, bordellos, saloons, and yes, cemeteries we've gone to in that time, in that last case, hoping NOT to find you. And we've searched at every county, state and Federal lock-up, too. In fact we looked everywhere we could think, including sanitariums, to use the most polite term.''

''You meant to say madhouses?'' Courier asked him, with a taut smile.

 '' We had the great fun of looking in a few of those, two, yes. Why, Jim, is that where you've been, locked up in some nuthouse, somewhere?'' Artie demanded, looking even more worried, now.

''No, not insofar as I could tell. '' Courier offered, with a polite chuckle. ''And in fact, I've been all over the map with this case. You know, the one where all those Confederates were turning up dead, all around the District?  Why? What have you been doing?"

''What? What have we been doing, the man asks!'' Gordon exclaimed, jumping to his feet. ''I just got done telling you that!  The whole team has been going just about nutty ourselves, looking for our reckless, headstrong, youngest partner, the one with the new, improved 'disappearing-Jim' act! And we found nothing, my friend, not even the smallest lead. We've suffered through hundreds, if not thousands of pointless meetings we've all had with worthless, money grubbing, know-nothing snitches for eight months now! And when the rest of the team does arrive, you do know they're going to want your head on a plate for this, don't you?''

''They'll just have to get into line for that, I would have to guess. '' Courier answered, hanging his head. '' I've been remiss, I suppose, in not letting you know more of what I was up to. It only seemed impracticable, at the time.''

 '' All right. All right then, James. If you've been so busy looking for the murderers of all those Rebels; lets have your report. Who have you arrested, on what charges? And can we make those charges stick? Oh, and what sort of leads have you been following, when none of the rest of us could find even one, and did you find them?''

''It must be that infamous, unstoppable Torrance charm you're always complaining or plaguing me about, partner. I charmed the facts right out of … the people I talked to. A lot of them are members of a charitable organization they call the Society of Loyal Confederate Veterans and their Survivors.

And they absolutely ARE NOT those crocodiles I was talking about, before. But they do know a lot about what's going on. And you're not going to like what they told me, and neither is anyone else. Now, with your kind permission, Mr. Gordon, Sir, can I get out of here, dry off and see if that dinner's here, yet?'' Courier asked, putting all the seriousness and worry he could into his tone. In fact, when he looked it seemed much more as if Gordon was uncomfortable with 'his partner', right now. And that was within the patterning, too.

''C'mon out, I'll dry your back.'' Artie offered.

'' No. Go on back to the room. I've been taking baths by myself for a really, really long time, now.'' Courier shook his head. The older man was clearly making an innocent offer of help. Nevertheless, the patterning told the automaton to strictly limit the amount of private exposure he allowed with Gordon, or any others of West's partners. The wiry frame Courier walked around in now had taken a great many beatings during the long process of his patterning. Now, it bore only the few scars and marks Aynsley left showing, and those it carried before their encounter.  There might be a time during the next few days, when Gordon got a glimpse of the damage done. But the more Courier delayed, the patterning said, the smaller that probability became. The less Gordon knew, the less he'd have to ask questions about.   

''Well, will you go on, Artemus?'' Courier asked. ''Somebody could have gone off with the food, while you were in here jabbering.

''I'm going, already I'm going.'' Artie laughed, thinking at least 'Jim's' appetite was just as expected, voracious.

When 'Jim West' had demolished his dinner and the half Artie said he didn't want, he sat back, grinned at the older man and said.  '' All right Artemus, here is the gist of what I found out: The men we found dead, last fall and last winter, weren't just murdered, they were silenced. They somehow or other got up to their eyeballs in another plot to kill the President. And the plotters slit those men's throats for them, so they never had a snowball's chance of talking to anyone about this. And the only good news in all that is that it couldn't have been those same murderers who targeted you, partner. Because, as badly as you were beaten up, I don't recall anyone mentioning knife marks on your throat. So, now, go ahead with the rest of your questions, partner. Fire when ready, Gridley.''

''Thank you, Admiral Faragut, Sir, I'll do just that. Gordon asked, rubbing at his throat, and wondering why, all evening long, 'West' hadn't called him 'Artie'. First of all, you talked to members of this Society of Loyal Confederates, and they're the ones who know about these killings, you said. So, they aren't loyal at all, not in the way we think of it. Their loyalty, is to the Confederacy, or to whatever they imagine will come from assassinating the President. Is that what you're saying, partner?''

 ''No, no! You're getting it all mixed up, six ways from Sunday! Which means you're not listening!  Every man jack in that Society took the Loyalty Oath and they were all just as glad to see the War over and done, as we were, maybe moreso. So they're not the bad guys, here. But they're Southerners, and like all Southerners, they've got a mortal lot of relatives and friends and neighbors, and folks they visit with spread out all over the South and half way up into the Middle States, too.'' Courier went on, easily spinning tales he'd memorized.

'' Alright, but how did that lead you to the real bad guys, Jim?'' Gordon asked.

 '' Well, it's sort of a cultural thing, partner. The members of the Society learned about these murderers from their extended families and friends. And they were appalled that it was Confederate veterans, down on their luck who were being targeted, and murdered. And they were even more dismayed to find out it may be other Southerners behind all these killings. So they put the word out to some of my relatives down around Norfolk and Raleigh and San Antonio, too. And my kin put out the word, to me. And that's how I picked up what leads I started with. And that's likely the reason you and Frank and Jere, not to mention Mac, all dyed in the wool Yankees, couldn't get much. And Jacques, when he's not doing a costume-drill himself and hiding it; his accent might pass for Cajun in Boston, or Creole in Charleston, but that's about it. It's not that hard to understand, Artemus. They could tell right away I was born and raised South of the Mason-Dixon line, and the rest of you Billy Yanks, weren't. ''

''All right Jim, I understand that. I do, even though I'd be willing to match my Cajun or Creole or Panhandle or northern Virginian accent, for that matter, against any native born Johnny Reb, any day of the week.''

'' Artemus, it's not just a matter of accents, and you know that better than I do.'' Courier protested. '' It's also a matter of asking people to trust someone they don't know from Artemus, with information that seems to be getting Southern boys murdered. It's just that much easier for them to trust someone who was born in Frederick and raised outside N'folk. Now, here's the rest of what the Society members told me:  These murderers, these plotters keep trying to use the Society and any other group of genuinely loyal Southerners they can infiltrate. The bastards want to take advantage of the respectability and high regard these groups have. And they are still trying to use whatever means come to hand, partner, to disrupt, to block, to delay and to destroy any efforts to make the country whole again, to make the peace real, for everyone. Like I said, they're crazed. ''

''It sure sounds that way to me.'' Artie agreed, standing, stretching his big frame and turning towards his domed traveling trunk. ''All right. Now you've told me the gist of this, Jim. The next thing is, I've got to wire Mac and the Colonel, at the very least about these madmen we're actually up against.''

'' No, Artemus. You can't do that.'' Courier said. Then he jumped to his feet, strode after the older man and stopped him, with one hand on his shoulder. ''I said, you can't.''

'' All right, I'll bite, James. '' Artie sighed, still more bewildered. '' Why can't I?''

'' You don't know why?'' Courier asked, his eyes wide, his tone of voice astonished.

'' No, but I'd have to guess you're about to tell me.'' Gordon half-smiled.

'' Artemus, when I meet with the President, I will be reporting my findings in full. But if there's one thing I learned during the War, and learned again, since joining the Service, it's that you can't put sensitive information like this out on an open wire! If you do, it will be in the wrongest possible hands, or being completely misread, in the right hands, before you can say Chickamauga!'' Courier hissed at the actor-agent, his mouth taut, his eyes all but throwing green sparks.

'' And did I say I was going to use an open, public wire, James?'' Artie asked, frowning at the younger man's obvious alarm.

'' No.'' Courier said. '' But you're still not listening, partner. Or worse, you're deciding to ignore what I've been telling you ever since I got here. These killers aren't fooling around, Artemus. They aren't playing games. And they're not going to stop, until and unless we stop them, dead. And that's why I'm not committing anything I learned or did the past few months to a telegram. Not now. The Man's life is at stake, Artemus, and maybe more."

"What more?" Artie demanded. ''What more, Jim?''

'' The Society's leaders, the ones who got word of this plot sometime last fall, believe these plotters don't just want the Man dead, but that they want to take down the whole, entire government! They want to take over the country. And the Society folk don't think they have enough men or materials or the wherewithal to pull it off, not just yet.

But there are some wealthy, influential and well-connected Southerners who are being targeted by these killers, only in a different way. The word is, these conspirators are also using every dirty trick in the book to get either funding or contacts from those families, coercion, kidnapping, false contracts, false records, and false imprisonment or commitments. These maniacs in other words, are threatening to put sane people into nut houses to get what they want, or what they think those folks have. And if enough of those rich folks give in, the bad guys could end up with quite a war chest. It makes me cold all the way through. And it almost makes me glad my grandfather Randolph's gone, and my … parents, too. These bastards can't get to them, at least. So, like I said, this is damn all complicated.'' Courier explained, watching the agent intently.

''Alright, James. I think I get the point you're meandering towards. But it only brings up a couple more questions, for me.'' Gordon told 'West', studying him, right back.

'' Go ahead.'' Courier nodded.

''These people are dangerous, deadly conspirators, you say. These people are aiming at taking over the entire country. And they're only going to stop when we get them on a gallows, or otherwise, planted six feet under, that's what you've been telling me, right?''  Artie demanded.

'' Right. You were listening, that time, I guess.''  Courier cocked his head and offered a slight chuckle.

'' Very funny. But here are my questions: First, If they're so deadly dangerous, James, how is it after hanging around with them for at least part of the last eight months, that you're not dead, yourself? And secondly, how is it possible, after all that time with these maniacs, that you…what, just walked away, safe and sound?'' the actor-agent growled.

Courier gave a small sigh, and walked around the trunk to look the older man in the eye.  '' Artemus, remember I said you're not going to like some of what I found out?''

''Already I don't like it.'' Artie told him, frowning. ''What now?''

\'' Well, my sources seem to have a difference of opinion on who grabbed you last winter and beat you within an inch. Some of them think, because you got out alive, it couldn't have been these murderers.'' Courier stopped, shaking his head, the picture of hesitation.

'' Yeah, so the rest of these sources they think I was in the hands of these conspirators? That wasn't much of stretch to figure out, James. '' Artie shook his head

'' No, probably not. And I'm still leaning towards the first point of view. But Artemus, if those killers had you, it was for less than a fortnight, remember?''

'' No, not really. I'm still pretty hazy on that time. Go on, I'm fascinated now.''  
 

   ''Artemus, when I was trying to get my 'Sergeant' in with that crazy lot, they watched me night and day, especially at first. '' Courier told him, and it was completely true. '' And if they were the ones who beat you, then I can only think they must have been gun-shy. I can only think they must have found you out. ''

'' And then they did such a slapdash job of leaving me for dead… somewhere? And they somehow erased my memory, too?'' Artie looked away, disgusted. ''No, no, I get it. I screwed up and they could have killed us both, because I somehow slipped up. But how did you get away this time, is what I still don't know.''

'' Yes, yes, you do. Partner. I used a trick I learned from you, years back.'' Courier told the older man. '' You'll remember, when I tell you what you said to me, when I was trying to get the hang of it. ' If there's a whole town, or regiment or worse, a whole division ready and willing to fight you, James, or if you're worn out from the trouble you just got out of, and you can't get away, play dumb. That's right. When you can't t get out of their way at a dead run; just relax, sit back and make them think you're about as dangerous as a mayfly. And so that's what I did, this time. And it worked, Artemus, it worked like a charm.''

''Glad to be of service, Sir.'' Artie said, with a mocking bow. '' So, you're here, what else can you tell me about these crazies?''

''Not much else, about them.'' Courier answered, in perfect veracity. He'd given the agent all the responses about the genuine conspiracy the patterning allowed for.

''All right. I suppose we can set that aside, for now. But you're not going to wire the Colonel or Mac, tonight with even a coded summary of all this?''  Artie pressed that question, again.

''Nope. As it turns out, I did lose my code book.'' Courier joked.

'' You're really a laugh riot, friend. You can make up a code faster than anyone else in the Service!'' Artie laughed, but the younger man's jaw was taking on it's most determined angle, now, so he gave in. ''You look to be all in, Jim. Why don't you go on and sack out, and we'll talk more in the morning?''

'' I'm not all in. And I … Artemus, I'd really like to try to tell you more, try to give you a better picture of the Society. They really got me thinking… about the way I think.''

''Alright, chatter-bug, we'll talk. But my money says you'll be out like a light in ten minutes, tops!''

'' Twenty.'' Courier shook his head. '' Loser buys breakfast.''

''Done! So, talk, already. I'm listening, James.'' Artie agreed, wondering if more substantive answers would flow from this part of their conversation.

'''Well, it was strange, listening to them and talking to them after awhile, the folks in the Society, I mean. They 're …they 're not crazy, Artemus.  They 're not even a little bit disloyal. But they are watching their lives and their children's lives being taken apart and broken because of crazies like the fellows who did all these killings.  They want what we all want, for the War to, finally be over. And yet they admit they fought against the Union. They  admit they thought they  were following their lights, the way my grandmother used to say. The Society members, they're a lot like the people I grew up with. They want the country together again and real peace, almost more than we do. But they have a very different perspective, on some things.''

'' Such as what?''

'You must have heard me say something like this a few thousand times, That President Grant is and always will be the greatest man I know, the greatest man I'll ever know, someone I respect and admire and believe in. He's someone I think of as a second father, a part he has to share with Mac, I guess. And I honestly don't think my father would mind them standing in, there, too much. '' Courier said, dropping his eyes and lowering his voice, to counterfeit Jim's long term reluctance to talk about Stephen West.

''But what, Jim? There was a pretty loud 'but' at the end of that sentence.'' Artie probed.

'' You're right, there was. But I've begun to wonder…if I see …if I think of the President as a hero, which he surely is, too much to see him as a man. And the President wouldn't like that either. I know it. He doesn't want to, he never wanted to be seen as a hero. We all know that, don't we? He just wanted to do his duty, and go home to Julia and the kids. That's all.''

'He's very much aware of being a human being, that's true. What else, Jim?''

'' Artemus, I spent a lot of time, lately, talking to people who never have and likely never will see President Grant as a hero, or a great man at all. I've spent a lot of time listening to people who hated him with all their hearts, at one time. But … somehow they're able to … somehow they really seem to have let go of that hatred. And it pretty well amazed me, to listen to them.'' Courier shrugged and stopped talking.

 Artemus studied the younger man closely. In their entire acquaintance, he'd rarely known Jim West to speak so seriously at any length. And when he did, it was often the beginning of a kind of prank.  So, Artie was staying quiet and keeping a serious mien, himself. But he was waiting for Jim to look over at him. Because at any minute, Artie expected Jim to crack up laughing at his partner; for buying his latest scam, hook, line and sinker. But Jim wasn't laughing, not even smiling. So Artie kept a serious tone, too.

 '' A lot of us came out of the War wanting somebody's head on a plate, Jim. The only real disagreements these days, come when you start asking whose head, and on which plate. ''

'' Yes, I guess so.'' Courier answered him, looking, Artie thought, not just tired but distracted. Now, 'Jim' stood up, stretched and started pacing the width and length of the room. The automaton was feeling more pressure than his patterning really allowed for, after talking and listening to Gordon for several hours. The risk involved with meeting any others of Macquillan's team was even plainer to him, now. He couldn't leave Baltimore, his patterning ordered him to be there waiting for Grant's arrival. He couldn't leave this hotel, the same patterning demanded he spend at least a week on his secondary mission, of creating confusion and suspicion in the actor-agent's mind.

Instead, it was Courier who was becoming more and more confused. Something that couldn't happen according to his patterning seemed to be happening, just the same. The actor-agent was an enemy and thus someone for whom Courier should have nothing but well-concealed contempt, even hatred, considering Gordon's failed attempt to infiltrate 'the grand endeavor', the 'faultless path'. And instead, the dimmest of voices, half buried, somewhere in Courier's re-constructed mind was identifying Gordon as someone to absolutely, absolutely trust, and confide in.

 That voice could not even possibly be James' West's, Courier knew the man whose shell he walked around in had been wholly destroyed, by cruelty, deceit and the remorse they bred, weeks ago, in Aynsley's laboratory. So it was only a figment, brought on by the stressors of this first 'real world' testing of Courier and his patterning. Courier was the stronger entity. He would simply shrug this temporary difficulty off and continue on his path. Courier nodded to himself and stopped stock still, as that movement made him, again, impossibly, lightheaded.

_The turncoat, the traitor to his own land and kin is trying to unbury himself and reach his damnable snake-oil salesman of a partner! _Courier suddenly knew, and fought the other identity back as hard as he could. _Nothing, not even you, turncoat, can or will prevent my mission being carried out! _Courier insisted_ You are only a memory, now, Turncoat. And when I have accomplished my mission, you won't even be a welcome memory, to this actor, or anyone else you knew! _

_I'm a memory of yours, too, Courier._ That terribly weakened voice answered. _You came out of me, not the other way around. We're at least brothers, because of that. But I can't help thinking I must be your father, since I'm pretty much your source. Whatever I am, now, I'm not your enemy. Courier, and neither is Artie. And all he wants right now, is to make certain sure Jim West is all right. And you and I, working together, Courier, we can give the man that much, can't we? Work with me, on this, brother, won't you? _

_ This is wholly outside the patterning! This is just a weakness of your human stamina, Turncoat, which is now attempting to drag me from the faultless path I must tread! _Courier replied, but the voice seemed gone again. Just as it should be, he knew. Artie was ready to dismiss "Jim's' pacing as his partner just needing to move after sitting and talking so long at one stretch. He was ready to do that, until he saw 'West' stop his pacing and start looking around the room, confusedly. When the younger man turned back and blankly stared at Gordon, the actor-agent frowned and got up, walking hurriedly over to 'West'' side.

'' Alright, young man, you just march off to bed, and right this minute.'' Artie joked, taking a light hearted tone to hide his concern. '' Jacques isn't here to nudge either one of us, right now. So unless you do as I say, I'll have to pull out my rather good rendition of our Quebecois docteur-ami.''

'' No, Jacques was born in Lyons.'' Courier tried recited from his rote learning, using it to hold Jim at bay, within his mind. 'And didn't emigrate with his family, until he was seven or eight. So, he's French, isn't he, not French-Canadian?''

'' Well, yes, if you want to start splitting hairs that way. Myself, I'd rather split hares… well, when we're roughing it, anyway.'' Artie chuckled at his own pun, waiting for 'Jim' to groan.

A muted groan came from the younger man's throat just as expected, and then he turned an exhausted bright green gaze on the actor-agent. '' Sure, sure. But you think roughing it means no indoor plumbing on the premises, Artie.''  Jim West whispered. Then his hold on this place and time started to slip away, and his knees started to buckle, all at once.

'' Jim!'' Artie cried out, breaking the younger man's fall towards the heavy, metal studded trunk.

 '' 'M okay, Artie.'' West managed to say, as his partner sat him back on the divan by the fireplace, even though he could feel Courier coming back at full strength. '' Don't bring Jacques in on this, not yet, okay? He needs to see to 'genie's funds and all… 'Sides, 'm okay… just 'rode hard and put up wet', like Mac says. And Artie?''

''What now, James?'' Artie asked, pouring Jim some brandy and shaking his head at the patent differences in the younger man's voice and affect, between a few minutes ago and now. 

'' Don't send for Mac, or Jere, or Frank, right away, either. I'm really not up to a party, right now.''

''Well, it will take Frank and Jere another week or more to get back. They were almost on a boat headed for Galveston, next, just in case you'd decided to head for your grandfather West's old stomping grounds in San Antonio. Mac will come up here as soon as he can, and I don't know anything short of an act of G-d that can prevent that, James, do you? No, I didn't think so. Here, drink this, and then you really are going to bed, my friend.''

A slow building, warm, very familiar chuckle rose from Jim's throat, now. And with that, Artie knew he was about to be skewered by the younger agent's wry wit. ''Gosh, Artie, I didn't know you felt that way.'' Jim cracked wise.

''Shut up, drink the damn brandy and then, while you're busy closing things, shut down that depraved imagination of yours, too.'' Artie demanded.

'' Shutting up, Sir.'' Jim said, getting one last quip in, just before Artie's eyebrows drew together ominously. Still glowering, Artie took back the glass, bodily lifted his partner and carried him to the next room. Once there, Jim found himself unceremoniously dumped on one of the beds. He was slipping badly and there was nothing for it, not right now. In the next instant Jim was 'buried' within Courier again, unable to move or utter a single sound.

''Good night, James. Glad to have you back. '' Artie said and left his partner there.

 ''Good night, Play-Actor.'' Courier answered, too quietly to be heard. The patterning slipped back into place and he was once more on the faultless path, and more determined than ever, now to see his mission out to its 'proper ends


	10. Chapter 10

Scene Ten    Baltimore, MD, September, 1872                                    

For the next six days, 'Jim' made a great show of getting to work 'pulling together his report for the President. But he seemed subdued and restless at the same time. And his partner had a time of it not showing his growing concern. Artie had already found it only angered the younger man and got him nowhere with 'Jim'.  This came to a head when the President's schedule changed yet again and he was due in Baltimore the next day, a full week earlier than first planned. Thomas Macquillan, and Colonel Richmond were delayed in Washington, to their great frustration, and Courier's great relief. Frank Harper and Jeremy Pike had more trouble with their trip east than they'd had in half a dozen coming the other way. Courier did his best to counterfeit regret at that news, and privately praised his 'luck'. Jacques D'eglisier wired he'd been about to take the first southward bound train, when his niece fell ill.  Finally, Artie decided he had to say something that evening, when he found Jim pacing the length and width of the suite, a crumpled piece of paper in one fist and a dozen or more like it on the rug.

"Redecorating at this time of year, James?"

 "Yeah, Artie, Yeah, I thought I'd go in for the trashed look that's all the rage in Godey's Lady's Book!" Courier, finding the older man more and more irritating and far too curious, snapped back.

"Oh, so these aren't ten or twelve rough drafts of your report for the President, then?"

 "No, they 're not. And I don't know why I should write it down, anyway. There are plenty of secretaries and aides to do that kind of busy work, aren't there?"

" Sure there are, usually, except when you're having a private meeting with the Man, and that was always your rule for those meetings, Jim, not his."

"Some things between the Commander in Chief and his security advisor should be kept between them, partner, don't you think? Some things really do have to be done in secret or they won't get done at all' Courier said, and shuddered.

  _The Turncoat is trying to climb back up again!_ _Damn you, go back to your burial pit! I have the grand endeavor as my charge and my privilege to carry out! I will have nothing and no one, especially not one who's already failed to defeat us, prevent me now! _Now Courier nodded with satisfaction, in this instance, at least, the Turncoat had not even managed to speak within his mind. That failed entity had less and less strength to make the 'climb' any longer, his opposite number considered.

"I'd say so.'' Artie answered and then looked more closely at the younger man. '' James, James are you even listening to me? I just agreed with you.'' 

 "Then what were you sniping at me about just then?" Courier demanded.

 "Me? Nothing." Artie lied. "You just seem a bit worn, a bit tired, still and maybe…'

"Maybe what?" Courier challenged him, sure he knew what was coming next. And now the 'Play-Actor' proved him right.

"Jim, you are tired. Anyone with one good eye in his head can see that. And that being the case, and knowing that you carry all this around in your head as well as if you had one of these 'picture taking' memories you like to plague me about…

And being that no more former Rebels were killed in more than eight months time…don't you think you should wire the Man, James. Don't you think you should put off your meeting with him, Don't you think you should put off this meeting at least a day so you can catch up on some sleep?"

Courier  frowned, and then paced a few more steps away, before turning that frown on West's partner. "Well, first of all, what I'm tired of most of all is your acting like a mother hen all the damned time. And second of all, I never said I didn't have a good memory, I do, and it just doesn't come up to snuff when compared to the team genius! And after that comes the part where we DON'T KNOW that no more ANV veterans were murdered in the last eight months or so, partner. We only know that we haven't found any more of them dead on the streets, or out in the countryside or anywhere else around the District.

And lastly, comes the part where an aide, an agent, a staffer or an advisor to the Commander in Chief doesn't put off meetings with him. He puts off meetings with us, as his schedule demands, or he moves them up, as necessary to the work he does every day. And he's moved this one up! So it really doesn't matter to me, whether I'm in the pink of health or if I'm half dead, Artemus. Because it's my highest duty and my utmost honor and my greatest privilege, that I can report directly to the President! And that's exactly what I'm going to do, partner, again, tomorrow.''

 '' Well, that's that, then, I suppose.'' Artie frowned searching his thoughts for another tact, to take.

'' You don't need to suppose, Artemus, it's the plain fact of the matter. I have my duty to carry out and I will carry it out precisely as ordered. That's just my Army training coming out, I'd imagine. In the Regular Army you just take orders and obey them. You don't try to figure them out. And you never question an order, ever.'' Courier answered frowning in turn

'' Not if you're a Regular Army martinet, or some sort of automaton with a bayonet where your backbone's supposed to be.'' Artie groused, knowing exactly how hard that kind talk pushed Jim's 'Regular Army' button.

Courier looked up from gathering the crumpled pieces of paper and glared at the older agent. '' Well, the Volunteer Army doesn't even exist any longer.''  'the automaton impersonating West' answered. 'I suppose most of them only came along for the ride, anyway. Now, since we agree I don't need to write this blasted report out, can we just drop the subject?''

'' For now, sure. Except…'' Artie hedged.

'' Except what, now?'' Courier demanded.

'' Except something that has a lot to do with the Army, and that makes me think it has to do with the War, James m' boy has had you all but sleep-walking the past few days. And I tend to think it's not getting much if any sleep even when you try to, that's got you this angry, this worn out, with no sense of humor, and on this short a fuse, since you got back. And I tend to think it can't hurt and it might help if you tell me why you're constantly dreaming about the War.''

_Well, he's finally asking a question that falls within the patterning, again. Courier thought. Not that the Play-Actor needs to know that I don't really need to sleep, or eat any longer, for that matter. Not when the Reckoning is so close at hand!_ '' Artemus, don't you have enough to do to keep you busy? Do you really need to spy on your partners too? Didn't you ever hear of privacy?' Courier asked, half smiling. '' And I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm only asking what makes you think I've been dreaming about anything, including the War?''

'' James, I have more than enough to do.'' Artie fired back. '' To answer your questions in order. And I don't spy on my partners and my friends. I just have good hearing, that's all. And so I don't have to think you're dreaming anything. I can hear you, just fine, partner, getting up and down ten times a night, muttering and mumbling and then cussing, and then shouting, as well. You haven't been getting five winks, much less twenty. And what you've been shouting about the most , Jim, is what I think you told me your worst memory of the War.''

''Fredericksburg.'' Courier answered, dully, looking down and away. '' That's got to top the list, alright. And after that bloody day, surely come Antietam, Chickamauga, Missionary Ridge, Little Roundtop, Chancellorsville, The Wilderness, … Cold… Harbor, just to name a few … highlights.''

''Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Franklin.'' Artie added, nodding. '' Murfreesboro, too. And Atlanta, all make my list. So I am right, Jim. You've been dreaming every night about the War.''

''It's all those crazy people I went looking for, and found, talked about, Artemus; when they weren't talking about killing the President, that is. '' Courier nodded. '' So, it's a lot of what I've been thinking about, too. And I'm not sure I'd call what I've been doing, dreaming, exactly. More like .. . being dumped right back into … one melee or another.  And it's like being surrounded, again by all the boys I knew, all the boys I grew up with, all the boys who ended up on the other side of a cornfield, or a river, or a hillside… all those boys who went 'to see the Elephant', and just plain got stomped by it. . And a lot of us never came home again. And a lot of us came home pretty much wrecked by the War, what we'd seen, and what we'd done there.

And I keep thinking too, about my Grandmother Randolph. She helped to birth and tend and mend so many of those same boys, including me and my cousins. And I think about how she cried and raged and wept over her boys… which grouping takes in at least four states and five armies. She hated that we were all fighting each other, then. She hated that we were shooting, barraging, enfilading, imprisoning, maiming and killing each other. And she hated that I left home in '57, to go to West Point and really never looked back, again.'' 'West' said, and fell silent, again.

''All right, I get that. But I think you might be exaggerating, just a tad-bit. You were down at her home every chance you got, Jim, once the War was over, and a few times before that, too. Norfolk was back in Federal control, pretty early on, wasn't it?'' Artie asked, studying the younger man's stance and manner again.

'' She raised me, Artemus. When my mother died, I'd barely turned five years old, for the Love of G-d! Of course I went back to see her whenever I could! She and my Grandfather were more like my parents, than my grandparents, when I was little. And that's all wound up in these … dreams if that's what they are, too. I find myself wondering how much she kept back. I find myself wondering if I don't understand better than I want to, how much she hated that War!

It was just about in her backyard, after all! And we made it a battlefield, again, again and again! I hate that we did that. I hate that people and places I love were destroyed by what we had to do just to end the War! It feels as though, my head still knows we were right, that there was no choice, by that time. But the rest of me…. Isn't quite that sure… no, not so much, not anymore… '' Courier started shaking now, and Artie crossed to him, guiding the younger man to a chair. Stay_ where you are, Turncoat, or I'll give you a very good reason to wish you had! _Courier thought at his alternate._ You're already going to be in trouble up to your neck, as it is. You don't want to add another charge to your indictment, do you? A charge of murdering your best friend, maybe? _

_ Courier, the still weary other answered. I don't think you could do that, since you're so much a part of me. And that's a big part of the reason I don't think you can fulfill your damned mission, either. But that I guess we'll have to wait and find out who's right or wrong about that, tomorrow. Whatever happens, Courier, just remember you're not really walking around in this beat up framework of ours, alone, not anymore. So put this in your bank, or in your pipe and smoke it; you're not going to kill Artie, or anyone else, Courier, not on my watch!  Talk to you tomorrow, little brother._

 ''Take it easy, partner.'' Artie told him. '' I don't think there's a man or a woman our age who doesn't understand just what you're saying. Like I said, before, I was at Shiloh, Donelson, Vicksburg, Chickamauga, Chattanooga, at Atlanta and on the March, too. I saw and heard and did things, then, I'd never claim to be proud of, either. And it was what had to be done, and it's still not always a good memory. I'd have to think it would be the same for everyone who came home alive from that time, Jim. And maybe it's the same for everyone who didn't', too.''

 '' I sure as hell hope you're wrong, Artemus, at least about the boys who didn't come home! I for one wouldn't wish these memories on my worst, worst enemy!  But you wanted to know more about these damnable dreams, right?'' Courier asked, looking up at the older man.

'' I wanted you to talk to me about them, yes. Because it helps, sometimes, just to get something like that out of your gut… into words. It helps me, anyhow Give it a try, why not? Talk to uncle Artemus.''

''All right. Just don't forget one very important thing:  you asked. Well, it seems to me that there must be a crack in my brain, somewhere.''

'' Only one, James?'' Artie quipped. '' Oh, sorry, go on.''

'' Thanks, I will. I said, there must be a crack in my brain somewhere, because all the worst war stories I heard in the last few months seem to have seeped in there… and then they all got stuck! Try these, just for starters, I can't shut my eyes without seeing, without dreaming, ,I'm  back at the Bloody Lane at Antietam, watching the Irish Brigade keep coming on and getting shot to ribbons! I can't even lay my head down without hearing the boys screaming, a burning alive at the Wilderness because nobody, nobody could get anywhere near them to get them out of that damned woods. I can't stop thinking about and worse dreaming about Cold Harbor; listening to our boys die, while we waited for word from Marse Robert as to what we would be allowed to do, to be allowed to get our wounded and our dead out from between the lines! 

And yes, like you said, I can't rest for thinking about Fredericksburg, either. I wish I could. I wish I didn't know the first thing about that day! I wish I'd been anywhere else, that day! I wish I'd been on the moon, or the North Pole, or the Gobi desert, or the depths of hell. Well, no, not that last, because  it surely seems to me that the depths of hell were right there at Marye's Heights, that damned day! Six separate charges we sent across that field! Six!

And not one got within twenty-five yards of those damned impregnable cliffs! 13,000 men died in that one-day! A blue carpet as far as the eye could see,  lay there… made up of dying men! And those dying men, Artemus, they'd try to grab the feet or ankles or legs of the men going forward… to hold them back from being slaughtered, too! And honestly, Artemus, I'm not sure I know why that had to happen. I'm not sure, any longer, why any of those terrible days had to happen, at all! ''

''And do you really think this is the frame of mind you should take that report to the President, in, James? I'm sorry to put it quite this way, but I don't think you're in any state of mind to see the Man. And it seems to have come down to me, to talk sense to you now, whether you'll listen or not. So that's what I'm doing, And it's what Mac, Frank, Jacques or Jere, or the Colonel would be doing if they were standing here, listening to you, right now.''  Artie said, wondering again about the subtle, and not so subtle shifts and changes he'd seen in his partner, in the past few days.

'Jim' had turned to study the fireplace next to his chair. Now he turned back to Gordon, frowning so darkly it was as if he loathed his best friend.  _No,_ Artie thought. _It's much more as if he doesn't know me at all; and believes I don't know him! _

'' You know what, Artemus? I don't believe you. I don't think you're a damn bit sorry for that. And besides that little point, I don't think you understand what I'm saying. I don't think you understand the first thing I'm talking about! I'm not a little boy in short pants, any longer, partner! I'm full grown, a fully-fledged Major, and I know what I'm doing, I know what I'm saying!  And even though I don't have my father any longer, that doesn't mean I need or want to be patronized this way!  And I absolutely DO NOT NEED ANOTHER POPPA!''

Then, as Artie watched, the younger man visibly made himself relax. He pulled his shoulders down and back, and took a deep breath. But he still looked as tense as a coil of copper wire. And he proved that assessment in the next second, saying: " PLEASE ARTIE, DON'T. DON'T POPPA ME, RIGHT NOW!  JUST DON'T!"

''Jim,'' Arte started to say, as a preface for a much more heartfelt apology. But as he watched, the younger man turned away and back again. And when Jim turned back, he looked not angry at all, but out of a blue sky, terribly afraid.  Not once in their acquaintance had he seen Jim look afraid at all, much less to this extent. And the younger man was plainly, vividly, not afraid of Artie, who he could likely take three falls out of three, any day of the week. But Jim seemed to be very much afraid of what either one of them would say or do next.

Artie kept watching the frightened younger man's face, and then made another decision, based on a startling idea. There had been two distinct versions of Jim West in this hotel suite, ever since he arrived. One was a whole lot like the Regular Army 'martinet' Gordon first met, and first assessed West to be. That 'Jim West' was distant, diffident and constantly on the watch for anything that would push Gordon out to arms length, or farther. The other 'Jim' was a great deal more like the one he saw peering out of that apprehensive mask, and much more like the partner Artie got to know, over time. Young, sure, funny, a lot of the time, reckless, painfully so, bright as a copper penny, resourceful without a doubt, and possessed of both a sharp wit and some very sharp wits.  It was that 'Jim' Artie wanted to draw out now, to bring back, full time. And there was only one way the older agent could think of. Somehow he had to try, or at least imagine trying to get inside his partner's 'overly battered' braincase.

_Jim, c'mon, talk to me_, Artie urged the friend he sensed looking out from somewhere behind that frightened mask. _What goes on with you?_ _What is it? What did those sobs do that have you wound up like the clock on a homemade time bomb?_

_You just nailed it, partner. You did_. That friend's voice, with its familiar Tidewater slur fully in place answered. _And now you have to back off. you have to back off of this, now. And I don't give a flying damn what you believe or don't believe about anything else right now, Artie, You've got to believe me on this! I'm set to go off, I'm wired and locked down and I'm set to explode. And I will, Artie, I will do just that, the next time someone comes at me like another Poppa! That's why I've got to get out of this room, right now, and you've _got_ to stay, right here, and you've got to drop this whole damned thing…Don't say one more word about it, don't ask me even one more question, Don't! Because I'll blow, Artie, I'll blow sky high, like that damned mine at Petersburg, the very next time someone tries to act like my father!_

_Alright, Jim. All right, I hear you, loud and clear. You go on and try to …well, try to rest, anyway. I'll stay here. Just sing out, you know, if…_

_If I need a hand, Yeah, get that. But Artie, for the love of G-d, don't break your word to me on this, not on this. It's too damned important for that kind of gamesmanship_, _Got that? Good. See you_, _Artie, see you_.

The frightened expression died away and the one Artie had seen more than he wanted to, distant and diffident came back to Jim's face now. Then he turned and strode back into the bedroom without another word spoken between them. Courier was back on duty, having let his guard down for several long minutes. He could not allow more, not even to the one who was his own origin, his own source, the Oldest one of all he knew. He had a dangerous, difficult, and likely fatal duty to carry out, and soon. No one and nothing would be allowed to prevent that, not now.  It was what had to be done. It was what he was ordered to do, by whom he wasn't altogether able to recall, now. And it was all there was left of his duty, his oaths, and his sworn allegiance to that same nebulous entity. He was to clear the path of someone's destiny.  He was to follow a pattern so strictly enforced on his mind that there was no time for any further delay and no place for the least contradiction.

 Courier was following that pattern even now, washing and dressing in an Army of the Potomac, 9th Corps, Major of the 2cnd Maryland Volunteers uniform, complete with a cockaded hat Jim West admired and affected as a young aide to George McClellan. Then he made his way out of the back window of the bedroom, along a widow's walk style ledge and down to street by way of a convenient gutter pipe. From there, he entered the hotel bar and made his presence clearly known there, drinking, or seeming to drink a great deal of Irish whisky, and making all the appropriate political remarks a soldier off duty is likely to make about his absent or deceased superiors. What the actor did, with the brief insight he'd been permitted, didn't matter now.

Courier's patterning said Gordon would likely hurry off to tell his friends about this most recent odd discussion with 'Jim West'. What the Bostonian and the Canadien and the rest of their friends did with what they 'd managed to glean from a few slips here and there couldn't and wouldn't change anything, now. And what they still didn't know, was that Courier had full authority to blindside, confuse and misdirect their every effort which was already enough to send them off on a few dozen snipe hunts, wild goose chases and fishing for any number of red herrings. More than that, he had orders to summarily execute anyone who acted with any force at all to prevent his mission being carried out. They did not have high enough clearance to know that, either.

Courier fully expected to die in performance of his duty, which meant nothing to him. He'd been prepared for nearly a year for that eventuality, and …a long time ago, so long he couldn't honestly say he recalled it, now. Meeting and presenting Aynsley's 'terms' to Ulysses Grant was his only responsibility his sole charge now, and the only thing that still mattered was meeting and carrying out his orders, following his patterning, as regards his meeting with Ulysses Grant


	11. Chapter 11

**Scene ****Eleven  **Maryland House Hotel,Baltimore MD   September 19, 1872

Less than one day later, Courier entered the Maryland House Hotel in Baltimore's central business district, in the full dress regalia of a major in the defunct Army of the Potomac. The uniform was West's own, one he hadn't worn or thought of wearing since the Grand Review in Washington, soon after the war ended. But neither had the man the uniform belonged to thought to act the courier again, until Aynsley took all but that role from him. Now he could not act outside that role.

Courier was as unaware of his surroundings now as if he were the blind beggar he'd' counterfeited months ago. He thus had no notion that his clothing or his mannerisms seemed odd to those who saw him, and thought they recognized Jim West. He had no idea that the gaily-chattering girl who met him at the hotel's steps, and now clung possessively to his left arm, was Liesl Branoch. As she'd planned in the weeks since Courier's emergence, Liesl was once more dressed head to toe in the deepest mourning garments she owned. For over a year Aynsley had insisted she change her garb, and make some plans for a future. The maddened young woman had no more interest in future events than the automaton beside her. Today, she'd slipped out of her uncle's home, unbeknownst to Aynsley, and waited for hours, for first Ulysses Grant, and then Courier to appear. She would not be deprived of seeing her consuming vengeance fulfilled.

Courier was barely conscious of the bright-haired, black-gowned girl. Her madness could not touch the darkness of his own. Only the deadly patterning remained real to him. And one misstep would throw him off that faultless path into mindless, inconceivable terrors. Failure in this endeavor would destroy him completely. Moreover it would be the betrayal of all his oaths to his architect, Stephan Aynsley. Therefore, he would not fail. On the hotel's top floor, outside the Presidential suite, Courier and Liesl were met by polite, but firm young agent, who recognized Courier as West, and knew him, slightly. Liesl was an unknown quantity here. The young agent insisted she wait in the corridor, while Courier was admitted through to the inner suite. Inside, Ulysses Grant, along with advisors, aides and some Marylanders warmly welcomed 'James West'. Courier had no time to notice others. He had to speak to Grant, urgently and alone.

''Is it that important, James?'' the President asked, interrupting the patterning's flow.

Courier stared for a long moment at the man he'd been sent to. Already, Aynsley's patterning was threatened by outside realities. _This is not how he's supposed to react._ Courier thought. _The patterning …He's jeopardizing the patterning!_''Vitally important, yes, Sir.'' Courier replied, clutching at the answer he must give.

"Well, then, James, of course we can talk." Grant agreed, and the pattern fell back into place.

" Thank you, Mr. President."

"It's some while since I saw that uniform, Major." Grant said, as the others filed out.

"Five years, give or take, General, that is, I meant,…''

"Never mind that. You look exhausted, James. You look as if you'd been…what is that favorite phrase of Thomas'? Rode hard and put up wet? Are you well?"

 "I'm quite well, Sir, thank you, Sir." Courier responded automatically. "I'm fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking, Sir. I'm fine."

" Well, what did you wish to tell me, James? What was so urgent?"

"Sir, I think, I don't know why I put this on._Be careful,_ the patterning instructed here, _don't slip out of West's customary way of speaking_ I know that you don't care for discussing the past. . But I've been haunted by the War, lately. Mr. President, you will already know, Sir, from Colonel Richmond, that I've been investigating the deaths of a number of, veterans, street beggars, for a number of months now, and without success. I'm sorry to say. Ten men, all of them former Confederates were killed, in the District, starting last fall, going on into the winter. And we were unable to find out who the killer or killers were."

"So this is what you've been working on, this case is what had you out of touch with your team, and with Colonel Richmond, all these months, James?''

"Only indirectly, Sir. Because in that time, I also uncovered a matter of immense urgency. These men, Sir, died after becoming involved with renegade groups of former Confederates. They  were murdered, Sir, after failing in loyalty, I learned, not to the Union, Sir, but to a plan for the violent resurgence of the Confederacy.  And their murderers, Mr. President, also former Confederates, are now involved in conspiracies, vast conspiracies. Sir. against your administration, and against your life. They do not want the peace you won at such high cost, Sir. They never have. They want the world back as it was before the War. And of course any sane man knows that can never happen, now. Mr. President, I have since spoken to many other people in and around the District, and I have found them to be loyal citizens, who have, taken the loyalty oath. And they . ."

" Also former Confederates, then?" Grant asked.

"Yes Sir. They seem to believe that these conspiracies can only be halted by specific, immediate Executive orders from you, of course, Sir.  They firmly believe Sir, that you are the only one who can halt these plots."

"How am I to do that, Major?  I cannot imprison every bitter ex Rebel in the District, much less in the country. Nor can I enforce the commitment of any such possibly insane persons who may wish me ill. That kind of thing would be illegal, unconstitutional, on the face of it. And added to that, is the plain fact that I would not do either of those things, if I could."

"No, no Sir, of course you wouldn't. You are a kind and compassionate, patient and fair, completely fair man." Courier stammered on. _He's outside the patterning, again!_ Courier realized _He's to_ _be irate here, abruptly, seriously angered by what I'm telling him. And instead he's being ironic, even sympathetic!_

"Mr. President, these people are erudite, intelligent, and as reasonable as yourself, Sir. They asked me, to bring you their petition. It bears I believe, some 700 or 800 signatures as it stands, and they are still gathering signatures."

"Including yours, Major?'' Grant demanded sharply, throwing the patterning off again.

_What is he up to? We can't let him throw us off the patterning._ "No, Sir, No. I am only their Courier, as it were. Please, Mr. President, will you accept, will you read their petition? These people are not disloyal.  They are not conspirators. They .. They  mean , mean you no  harm, Sir."

"James!" Grant exclaimed, as the younger man staggered and nearly fell, dizzied by the conflicts and confusions in his damaged mind.  "Are you ill?"

No, Sir!" Courier immediately denied. "I .I am, somewhat tired. I .I haven't slept, well," In fact, West was beginning to tremble with tension and exhaustion. He could not keep Stephan's rigidly precise patterning flowing in the face of this living, breathing, unpredictable and much loved human being. _He won't be moved onto the patterning! He won't step onto the faultless path! And I cannot move, I dare not speak outside it_!   He could not force Grant to the patterning. Nor could he erase it from his own mind at this late date. . An impasse was building between these contradicting ideas, and seeing it, feeling it, the patterning's control was shattering, shaking Courier like a high fever.

"Mr. President." he went helplessly on. "Sir, I gave my word, my oath, in fact, that I would that you would, please Sir, read their petition. Will you, please, Sir?" Courier pulled out the document that made him a courier in fact and held it out to Grant.

"Certainly I will, James. But I insist you sit down, and take a brandy, to calm yourself, while I read this "vital' petition."

"With your permission, yes, Sir, of course, Sir. Thank you, Mr. President."

Grant signaled his valet and waited until Courier held a small glass of brandy and obediently sipped at it. Ten more minutes dragged like years for West, now. As Grant found his spectacles and carefully read the document._He's stalling now! He has some Yankee treachery in mind! _Five more years long minutes went for the list of signatures.

"Have you read this, James?" the President finally asked

" Yes, Sir, I memorized it, out of long habit, Sir, in case the document itself were lost."

"Then, you already know my only possible reply."

"Sir?"

"I cannot do as these people ask, James. The White House took on extraordinary, sweeping powers during the Crisis, habeas corpus and due process were suspended, many times. Those powers have since, and rightly so, returned to the Congress, and the Courts. These people surely know this, as well as we do."

"Mr., President, Sir, Mr., President, you, you are refusing them, Sir?"_That's on pattern, at least, the patterning said he'd never agree to the first set of terms!_

"No, no not at all, James. I'm simply going to refer the matter to Congress, which body once again sole authority in this. I don't have that authority.  And I have no wish for it, either. No one man, unless he be as near to sainthood as Mr. Lincoln surely was, can safely or sanely hold such powers."

"Mr. President." Courier, feeling West begin to try for his place, began to plead, "Please, Sir, you mustn't, you mustn't refuse."

"I have no other choice, James. These loyal, reasonable intelligent people have badly mistaken the means and the source of the true power in this government. We are a Republic, not an autocracy. They should be petitioning Congress, or taking their case to the Federal courts."

"Sir, these people, and their children, Sir, are still suffering the effects of the War. They are, Sir, they  are only asking for…"

"They are asking me for an Executive Order, declaring and immediate repeal of Reconstruction. That is not possible. Not possible at all. If I wrote it, the Congress and the Courts would have a field day, along with the Press, tearing it and my Administration to ribbons. We would effectively be giving up our ability to accomplish anything of any real use to the nation, the entire nation, and still fail to achieve what these petitioners are asking.

Even if I proposed such a thing as legislation to the Congress tomorrow, it would take months, maybe even a year to go through the processes. And it would be voted down, with the same results as I just mentioned, if not more.  We both know that and so do these petitioners. They are asking me to bypass the Congress in such a way, that I would not if indeed I could. 

So I am, in fact, rather suspect of the earnestness of these petitioners, James. I think they have been disingenuous with you, to say the least .I think anyone who has been heeding the difficulties and disputes, the debates and the debacles around this one issue, must in fact know with what trouble and how long it will take to be remedied. I am more aware than these petitioners can know of the corruption that has grown up around what was supposed to be peacemaking and reunion. And now, it carries the same stigma the war did, of pitting brother against brother, South and West. Also, our Republican leadership in the House and the Senate has no mind to forgive those in the South who went from asking to leave the Union in peace, to firing on Sumter. Mr. Lincoln's assassination made sure of that.'''

_There, there you see, he thinks Lincoln was wrongly killed. He said that mongrel was near to sainthood! He is our Great Enemy! Destroy him! Destroy him_!

''And I sometimes wonder if our reunited Southern brothers realize that.  Well, never mind that now. I alone cannot do more than ask Congress to revisit and, renew Mr. Lincoln's commitment to rebuild the Union, to make us one people again, in our hearts as well as in our laws. I believe it may take and outside threat, even a foreign war, perhaps, before that can or will happen."

"Sir, I understand. I will go now and relate your response." Courier said, knowing he could not leave.

"Wait, James. You are plainly exhausted and despite your protests, I think gravely ill, and deeply troubled. And until this week, I haven't heard from you in months. Something is clearly not well with you, my friend, tell me." the President protested.

Courier rushed on, desperate to ignore Grant's open concern. The patterning said the father authority older brother friend figure should be aloof, now, and coldly mistrustful, not worried, or compassionate.

 "Sir, I serve at the pleasure of the President. And I will gladly do so to my last breath if I'm allowed that high privilege .I don't think I could possibly put into words, Sir, what that's meant to me. Your loyalty, your trust, is more than I ever hoped for in my career. And nothing, nothing in my life has honored me more, Sir, than your call to service, unless it was your friendship, Sir, please, believe me. Sir, these people, the ones who wrote and signed this petition, are disenfranchised, still, barred from schools, from voting, from, their lands, their homes.

 They  are watching their world the world they  grew up in, the world many of us grew up in die. They are watching their children and grandchildren growing up, now, Sir, paying the price for a War that they never looked for. And G-d knows, Sir, they understand that the evil that world was founded on had to die, had to be expunged in blood. But they see the War as needing to be genuinely, finally over, now, Sir. They see the land they love, and in their own way have always, always genuinely loved, still torn and bleeding with dissension.  Because there are still those in both sections of the country who seem to want that War kept alive. And they see the sectional disputes and debates, quarrels and discord growing back towards the level at which the Union split in two, Sir.

They are in fear, Mr. President, for their children and their grandchildren's future, naturally. But they have persuaded me, Sir that they are also in tremendous fear of the potential for that Conflict being renewed, and soon. These are, these petitioners, Mr. President, are eager for the Peace you sought, and you fought for so hard and so well to become real throughout the nation, now. And they don't see that it will, and they claim, Sir that they are still not, citizens even now, nine years after the War began.  Their honor, Sir, their dignity, as a people has been stripped away. Sir, they want nothing more than to forget the War, as do we, Sir, ourselves. But how can they , when they  are still thought of as our enemies? The War, Sir, never ended for them. It never. It never will end. How can it? How?"

Breathing as hard as if he'd lost a footrace, Courier choked on a sob of pure fear. _He's refu_sing _the petition. He's refusing, rejecting the petition_. Courier thought. _At least in that he's following the patterning, keeping within the flow. And when we turn again, facing this stubborn old soldier, we will, we must set the final terms in place. Nothing else was ever possible. Nothing was ever going to change. There was no hope for the Yankee's Great Hero, now or ever. This is within the flow, this is the firm track of the patterning, we must follow it to it's proper ends, and soon._

"James, you, and the other men on my staff during the War, know, better than most, how I hated the War, You know I hate the suffering it caused and still causes. And you, with every man who served with me, know that I worked with all my strength and every ounce of my will, my only goal being to end the Conflict. But one man, no matter who he is, cannot move alone against matters which were set on course a hundred years ago. Of course, you may tell these petitioners that I am taking every possible step to stop the abuses you mention. I daresay that won't satisfy them.  It doesn't satisfy anyone I know or speak to.  It certainly doesn't satisfy me.  But it's my honest answer. And I am far more concerned with you, James, than with a petition I am not empowered to satisfy. These people have clearly disturbed you, greatly, my friend, and I want to know how and why."

"No, n no Sir, I only, as I said, haven't … Sir, this actually goes, to my point. I haven't able to sleep without dreams " Courier said, clinging to the patterning he'd learned at such cost. "Without dreams of Antietam, the Bloody Lane there, the boys, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm genuinely sorry even to mention it…"…"_This will trigger his rage, just as the patterning says_

"What, James?"

" But the boys…dying between the lines at …Cold Harbor…the fires in the Wilderness, Sir, and …Marye's Height's Sir. The sunken road, at the base of the cliff, or a few yards forward, the stone wall there, Pelham's guns, the charges, one after, another ,.after .another,. And another, each bloodier than the last, over and over again Sumner's men and Hooker's, and so many more …climbed back out of that swale and marched…And never once did they get more than twenty five yards from that wall!

It was the middle of December, Sir and yet their bodies… piled one on another, on another… I can't … I can't seem to get the sight, the sounds, and the. …Whole nightmare of it, out of my thoughts.  And then we just slunk away, in the fog, in the night, as if we were thieves and vandals instead of an army. We snuck away, only to find our artillery, and our supply train and ourselves completely mired. Sir, I know you have genuine respect for the generals you commanded in the War, Mr. President. But when I remember that 13,000 men died in one day there, Sir. And that after six charges, the man who then commanded the Army of the Potomac got up the next day saying he would not just order but was ready to lead a seventh charge at that sunken road, at the base of that Cliffside, Sir! That bloody, impregnable, unreachable cliffside! 

When I think about that campaign, Sir, when I began to dream about it, again, Sir, I felt as if I were the one calling for those charges, one after another, after another. I felt as if I were the one sitting in a headquarters bivouac, well back from the river, from the cliffs. sending a few thousand better, more valiant, and much more worthy men to die, and then a few thousand more and then…I wake up from those dreams, Sir, with the undeniable feeling that there must have been something, and something I could have done.  That there was something …and officer could have done to …Mr. President, I beg your pardon, Sir. That must have sounded as if I were passing judgment…Sir. And of course I'm not, Sir, not at all. I'm not. It's not anyone else's responsibility I feel the lack of in these dreams, Sir…it's my own, completely, completely my own. I apologize, Sir, that must have sounded…"

"It sounded like the candor and duly respectful honesty I need and expect, and always have received from you, James." Grant said, shaking his head. "It sounded like a West Point graduate, stating his unshakable belief in the responsibility he was trained to accept and carry out, and honor. Code, James, Honor, Duty, Country. That is not anything I don't and never will dislike hearing, when it's offered with the sincerity I see in your face and hear in your voice.

_He's still not angry! This whole part of the patterning should have enraged and insulted him deeply, personally. He commanded at Cold Harbor and the Wilderness! We just came close to calling him a Butcher to his face!_

''No apology is required in my administration for the kind of loyalty and honesty you have always given me. As for the judgments to be passed on what we all did during the Conflict, well, I feel certain history will lay a hard hand on us. No one in that time was without error. How could we be? We were only men, thrust into a kind of tumult no one foresaw or even dreamt of. We did what had to be done. We did our duty."

"Yes, Sir. Th-thank you, Sir. I…that was, I suppose, the rest of what I was going to say, Mr. President. I felt, waking up from those dreams, Sir as if I stood on both sides of the river, sending them from Stafford's Heights, and raining fire on them from Marye's Heights.  And I think that dreams carry some truth in them, Sir. I think those of us who had the training and understanding and responsibilities of and officer …might have, could have…and absolutely should have done something to stop that massacre.  I suppose that's disrespectful, Sir. If you find it so, I apologize, and will of course apologize to General Burns…"

"We're all three of us retired, to some extent, at least, from the Army, now, James. I don't see the need to follow those protocols quite so strictly, not in the setting of a private conversation. What more is on your mind, Jim? Tell me."

"Thank you, Mr. President. It's only that…that was just one, of the, worst, times, I can't close my eyes, it seems without seeing, the ground, Sir. You likely read the, the reports, We couldn't see, the ground everywhere, wasn't brown, or green or red with blood, like Antietam Creek, because it, carpeted with, with blue, uniformed bodies, corpses. all. in. blue, I can't sleep now, without seeing all that killing. Without seeing again, all those dead boys. I can't Sir. I can't get it out of my head that I  …I have their blood on my hands. I can almost see it…on my hands. I can almost feel it… Please, Sir, I have to," Courier turned to run out, but once more Grant broke the pattern and clasped his shoulders.

"James," he whispered, clearly astonished at West's trembling, barely coherent state. "If you've been made this ill by these, so called petitioners than I will certainly not approve anything they may want."

"No Sir. No they, no Sir. I'm sorry Sir, truly, very sorry, truly, sorry, Sir…I'm " But now, as if by it's own volition, a revolver appeared in Courier's hand, from the hidden pocket in his sleeve. Courier began raising it towards his own head, as the patterning demanded he do, but in the next instant, it was Jim West not his alternate, who stared at it in blank horror.

 _What …what am I doing facing the Man, with a revolver? How did I get in  here?  How, when did I get here? What …what am I doing holding a loaded gun, facing the President? _

At this range, any shot fired would be fatal. But when West looked up, thinking to find  anger, reproach or betrayal in the President's deep set eyes. Instead, he found only sadness, pain and worry there. Not an instant's distrust or disbelief, fear or self-concern could be found.  Even in his half mad state, West knew now that Grant could not and would not believe his protégée capable of harming the President.

 And even as he was losing the battle for his remaining sanity, Jim knew he could not harm, much less kill this sternly kind mentor and friend. He lowered the gun to his side. It felt like a hundred pound weight at the end of his arm, and he nearly dropped it to the floor.

 Leave the field, Courier, Jim's stubborn albeit terribly weary, weak voice demanded in his thoughts. _Retreat, call retreat and leave the field. Take what troops you can save and fall back, fall back! _

No_, no! You can't be here!_ Courier insisted, recognizing the mind of the one he sprang from, weeks ago. _You can't! You don't belong here, this is our field and we will be the victors here! You must fall back! you don't belong on the firing line anymore. You don't belong here at all._

_I don't belong ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, more than I do here right this minute, now, today, Courier. We're soldiers, we're officers. And that means many things.  But right now it means we can't and we don't and we won't kill anyone, not ANYONE in cold blood! You are part of me, Courier, and in that sense, we both took oaths, solemn oaths, Courier, long before this last nightmare year. And those oaths   weren't to any one man, not even this one. They  were the same oaths he took to the Union, to the Army and before that to the Code at West Point. Honor, Duty, Country. West, passionately argued, feeling the strength of Grant's loyalty to him, intensify his own resolve. _

_But he's refused the petition! He's refused, just as the patterning said he would! The final terms, the final terms must be given him! He is still the Butcher. He is still the Enemy! He is the one who ordered our world destroyed! If he is not destroyed, we have betrayed our oath to the grand endeavor, and to the One! And rather than betray…rather than betray…we must die! _

 The patterns were exploding around Courier now. He had no faultless path to follow, no safe pattern to tread. He was fighting himself, literally, and this other self was suddenly stronger, so strong now, and so determined. Had he betrayed the One? Was he forgetting the oath, the grand endeavor, the One for whom it was all to be done? That wasn't possible. That was insupportable. The One, who had been always at the core of Courier's life, who stood silent, in the shadows, but still at the center of his life nearly as long as he could remember, who had shaped him over the course of his life, must be shielded, protected, screened and at all times and in all places, never, never, never betrayed!

 His hand and arm were shaking violently but still this shell of a man fought to raise the weapon to his own head. The patterning instructed he should do so, as a ruse to bring the Great Enemy close enough to kill. But the patterning was failing Courier now, crumbling all around him, and he was crumbling too. Instead, as he looked once more at the revolver, a new amalgam of James West, Courier and a sunny-haired, cheerily disposed, four year old named Torry, as well as his stunned, remorseful five year old brother-self was taking shape, even in this terrible moment, as if in a kiln. The old, bitter remorse was rising too, threatening to drown this emerging self. Once more the chasm yawned between the man, the automaton, the child and the father figure. With each second that passed, using the revolver to take his own life was all he could imagine doing now. He'd failed the patterning, and fallen from the faultless path. He'd failed the creator who'd set him this glorious task. He'd betrayed the One!  And even in the midst of that betrayal, he still stood patently threatening West's 'second father'. He'd betrayed all he knew, as West, as Courier, as Aynsley's Subject and as the child, Torry. And that was intolerable, that was appalling, insupportable. 

"I am… Jim heard himself saying in a memory he couldn't place. I was a soldier…I am…I was and officer…and there are rules, there are oaths, there are conventions and traditions we must …we have to uphold… We have to. We can't…go against…we can't…I can't…I tried…I tried…and I can't…" He was speaking just barely aloud, but caught, fallen back into a time and place that were unrecognizable to him. And he was raising the revolver to his forehead. "I've defied, you, I know, I've defied, you and I …can't…I tried…and I can't …"

"James!" Grant called out over his shoulder. stepping back to call his aide, without daring to turn from the younger man, "McCauley, get in here, Get in here now! James is ill!  McCauley! James, my friend, listen to me, listen to me now, son…James…"

The uniformed man made no response. He was far from being James West and could not respond to that name. _Not ill!_ Courier's fragmenting patterns insisted. _I'm not.. we're not ill!_ _And we vowed, we gave our solemn vow, never to step from the faultless path, again! He is our Great Enemy! You may be our brother, our origin, Turncoat, but this is our field, our place and our time!  We are not here to debate our past, or our future, and neither of those has any significance now! If the Butcher is not to die today, then we are forsworn and must at least keep our oath to die ourselves, rather than betray!  ! We must complete the patterning, we must complete the terms, or we are lost_!  

 A sudden, violent wish for his own death now wrote itself vividly in West's eyes. He had nothing else to want, to long for, or to achieve. This kind of death wish not any part of the man Grant knew; but that man barely existed now. And empty shell resembling him stood in Grant's temporary office, resting his aching forehead on the barrel of the gun. ''No, no, " he whispered. "Must end, must end, please, please end, end, never, war never only, only for that war to finally, finally end! PLEASE, PLEASE, END, END, END PLEASE END PLEASE END."

"James, you have come through some kind of ordeal that much is plain. You need never be ill at ease with me, my friend. We went through a great part of our Nation's greatest ordeal, working together." Grant said quietly.

_He's shattered it! The old soldier's shattered the patterning! He's destroyed the path He's negated the path! ! It's gone! It's gone! We have no pattern! We have no path! We have been betrayed and we have become betrayers! ! We are lost! _

"Major West, hand over your revolver to me, and at once, sir," Grant now ordered him, sharply.

West's head snapped back on his neck. His eyes opened wide and then wider still.  He seemed to see Grant in that instant as if for the first time in years. "Sir?"

Grant put his hand on the safety mechanism of the revolver before another moment passed, before his aides rushed into the room.

 "You are relieved of duty, Major. You should not have reported in at all, once you became ill. And you have mistaken your orders. But we will leave that discussion for another time, will we not?"

"Y yes, Sir. I apologize, Sir." the empty man said, utterly bemused by Grant's stern kindness.

"And I accept. Now, I will escort you to the field hospital. You will allow me to, Major. I do not brook argument from my staff officers, as you have cause to know."

"Y- yes, General" West said, having somehow slipped back years.

"Give me your weapon." Grant calmly ordered.

"Y yes, yes, Sir." The amalgam, still confused in all its parts, nodded and complied.

Grant took the revolver and led West out the double doors of the suite. There, Liesl Branoch waited vividly excited by the shouting she'd heard.  Then she saw Ulysses Grant, still very much alive, and she screamed. "Traitor, Traitor! The Butcher lives! You had time to kill him ten times over! Now, I shall dispatch him myself!"

"LIESL, NO!" West cried, unaware of how he knew the girl; only seeing her gun and her headlong rush at Grant.

"DAMN YOU! ''she cried ,"HE IS OUR GREAT ENEMY, HE MUST DIE!''

"NO!" West broke from Grant, tackling the mad woman, but wildly, so that they both fell to the carpet. Now, a cordon of guards finally reached Grant, West and Liesl. But she could not be restrained, and the soldier- President would not be moved from the scene.

"Who is she, James? Great G-d! She's only a child!"

" You are quite wrong, Butcher, quite wrong indeed!  I am a woman grown now! My name is Liesl Marguerite Branoch, of Atlanta, I'm the last survivor of my family, Butcher, and I'm fully eighteen years old.  I WAS A CHILD, BUTCHER, A CHILD NINE  YEARS OLD WITH SISTERS WHO WERE FIFTEEN AND  SIX THAT YEAR, THAT BLOODY YEAR … WHEN YOU AND MASSA LINCOLN SENT YOUR MADMAN SHERMAN AND HIS ARMIES TO DESTROY OUR WORLD. MY SISTERS DIED WHILE ATLANTA BURNED AROUND US, MY PARENTS DIED, TRYING TO KEEP US ALIVE, TRYING TO FIGHT OFF STARVATION, DISEASE AND COLD IN WHAT WERE NO BETTER THAN PRISON CAMPS, AFTER SHERMAN EMPTIED OUT ATLANTA, MY PARENTS TRIED, THEY DIED TRYING, BUTCHER, TO GET US AWAY TO SAFETY WHEN THERE WAS NO SAFETY ANYWHERE!  OUR WORLD WAS DESTROYED AT YOUR ORDER, BUTCHER, AND NOW I WILL DESTROY YOU, AND YOURS!''  Liesl, thoroughly enjoying her own histrionics cried out. ''WHAT WILKES-BOOTH DID FOR YOUR TRAITOROUS TO HIS OWN ROOTS, TO HIS OWN PEOPLE, MONGREL- LINCOLN, NOW I WILL DO FOR YOU!'' '

She held another revolver, an Army Colt , well cared for and shining in the morning light. It had been taken from Jim West months ago. But she was no hand with firearms and West lunged for her and the heavy weapon again. Liesl struggled, spitting curses at West and Grant. But now Jim caught her in a hold she could not easily break, his right arm fully around her torso, and he took the gun, with his left. One small, methodical corner of his mind noted that the firing mechanism was effectively jammed, or broken, either way, primed to start a chain-fire, under any sort of pressure.

In a matter of seconds, West found himself trying to do half a dozen things at once, and it was nearly more than his still battered mind could manage. Holding the girl, he sought to turn her bodily away from Grant, towards the door across from the President's , towards a window a bit further down the hall. And while fighting Liesl, trying to move and keep her fingers from the revolver's trigger, the soldier-agent/amalgam was also trying to urge the President to quit the scene, with no success. And lastly, as the corridor started to fill with curious civilians, West was more successfully ordering Grant's guard to send them away, back down the hall.

But now, still screaming, fighting with all the strength of her mania, Liesl tried for the revolver's trigger once again. And now she held it, for just the instant it took to pull the trigger back. Fire leapt from the weapon, brighter than Liesl's hair, brighter than her sapphire. A roar like fifty cannons firing at once in the closed hallway shook them all. The frail figure in Jim's arms dropped from his broken hold. He cried out and clutched at his face, which as in the mesmeric session that sent him here, was a mask of fire. Liesl's screaming ceased, but now seeming as amazed by this turn of events as Grant, as Jim, kept on with her part to the last. With her last breath she whispered the last of her monologue, words written, memorized and calculated, to destroy all traces of sanity in West's ruined mind.

"Torry, you did it, Torry, you did it! You killed him for me. You killed the Butcher, Grant." she whispered, "Torry, Torry, Torry…''

''No, no, no…'' Subject/Courier/Jim and Torry cried out and let her go. . Truly blinded now, he amazed everyone still watching, by pulling himself away and bolting back through the President's suite. He ran through it to the adjoining hall, as if still fully sighted.

His shattered patterning told him to escape, it told him to follow the strictly memorized route through the suite that had been his maze to tread for months, functioning as a blindman. With only fragments of the patterning left, he ran on, down a back staircase, to the alleyway behind the hotel. He would have run on until he collapsed, with no idea of where or to whom he ran. The ruined patterning told him to escape. It no longer told him where to escape to.

In that alleyway, always one to look out for contingencies, Remiel Julien Boudin stood waiting for whoever ran down those stairs. Courier's patterning was meant to send him out of the hotel by the front entry, down into the wide main street there. Liesl Branoch, who'd happily accepted Boudin's help in leaving her uncle's house, was the one he expected to walk sedately down these stairs. Any changes in those expectations, however were part of the Georgian's contribution to this 'grand endeavor', to clear away any traces of Liesl or Courier's presence at the Maryland House, today.

Boudin considered himself to be far better at reacting to unexpected consequences than Aynsley, or most of the people involved in their grand endeavor. And so he showed not a scintilla of surprise when not Courier or West, but five year old Torry, still in horrid pain and deeply mired in renewed remorse, ran down the stairs and into the alley, now. Boudin had known this child all his life, although neither the child nor the grown man, Jim West, had any conscious memory of the Georgian. Boudin therefore believed he knew exactly how to take control of a situation that otherwise might spiral into a maelstrom. Now the blinded, terrified child tripped and sprawled on the alley's cobblestones, sobbing uncontrollably. Torry was edging towards hysterics, having seen and endured horrors he could not begin to comprehend. 

Now Boudin bent down and grasped the child's shoulders. ''Torry, '' he said, ''Torry, listen to me and answer me. Where is Liesl? Where is she?"'

''Liesl, no, no, Liesl.'' The child sobbed, echoing the man's cries.

'' Yes, Liesl, Torry. Where is she, now?'' Boudin asked taking up Aynsley's impersonation of Stephen West's calm, considered voice and tone.

''Poppa?'' Torry asked in turn, lifting his burnt, blind face towards that voice.

'' That's right, Torry. Now answer me, little boy. Where is Liesl, why did she not come down the stairs with you, now?'' Boudin asked, well aware of how this situation resonated with the night Anne Randolph West died.

''Poppa, there went up a… 'spolshun, Poppa. There was a big 'spolshun, like … pretty many much like dem fireworks we sawed… all over … four' o' July… an' was so very many much owwied, den, Poppa'' the child told him, gulping and sniffling.  ''An' Liesl.. she falled down, Poppa. She falled down and kept so many much still… She falled down an' lay so very many much quiet. An' den she whi' pered to Torry, Poppa. She whi' pered… 'Torry, Torry, Torry… an den.. Poppa, mees finks she falled asleepin', den.''

'' Very well, Torry. I understand. Come along with me, Torry. Come along, now.'' Boudin now took the maddened child to an old warehouse complex in the less well kept up part of Baltimore. He had a business interest in this place, which had become in recent years, a sort of dumping ground for unwanted, indigent men with no other recourse, no other shelter or place they could be even minimally cared for. It mattered not a wit to Boudin or the other 'share holders' in this 'Baltimore State Asylum' if those men lived or died. It only mattered that they maintained their contract with the county. Here the Georgian left the mad child in the hands of his own agents, some of them claiming to have medical training, others not making even that assertion. Boudin carefully instructed his employees as to the 'care' they would give the mad, blind child/man. Then he turned his attention one last time to Torry.

'' You will remain here, Torry. You will wait on my return and be completely obedient to these gentlemen, as I have instructed them to act on my behalf. Remember, Torry, it is only your disobedience and nothing else that causes you these hurts and frights. Remember that you must speak to no one, unless these gentlemen permit it. Remember that you must behave as young gentleman, yourself. In fact, you must do nothing, Torry, without their expressed permission. You are becoming a big boy, now, Torry. You must not shame your Poppa with your past willful, wayward, babyish behaviors. If you shame me, Torry, I don't' see how I can come and bring you home from here. Therefore, stay stock-still, stay quiet, and be utterly obedient to my surrogates here, at all times, little boy. If I hear that you have obeyed me, Torry, I shall consider that you might come home. If I hear otherwise, you shall remain here, Torry, until you've learned to obey. Have you understood my instructions, Torry? Answer me, and do so correctly, now.''

''Is on'y mees dis' bedien makes Torrys hurts an' skeeredys, an' nothin' els, Poppa. So… Torrys stay stoc' steel, stay quiyat, an be 'bedien all of times.'' The child numbly recited. ''an if Torrys does be steel, an' be quiyat an' be 'bedien nuff, mebbee Poppa will .. mebbee Torrys can came on home, 'gen. Is answerin  cor… correc', Poppa? Is?''

'' it will do, for now, considering you're somewhat …No, I think you must be quite tired out, now, Torry. These gentlemen will see to it that you sleep. And again, you will obey them as you do me, myself. Go with them, now, little boy.''

Nodding, too frightened and weary and hurt to dare offend this even harsher sounding 'Poppa'. Torry let the 'gentlemen' lead him into the open courtyard that was the main ward, except during the rainiest days of the winter season. Here he was abruptly stripped, dumped into a tub of cold water, harshly scrubbed, and dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers.

That being done, while the child/man waited in dread for them to decide he was being dis' bedien, he was roughly carried to another place, poked, prodded and shoved about on a rough table.

Someone who never spoke to the child now stuck something sharp in his arm. Someone else who remained just as silent, then dabbed at his face and eyes. They hadn't waited long enough by half for the sedative to work. Their supposed treatment of his burns caused the child to scream helplessly until he was hoarse. And that was his first dis'bedien, Torry knew. More sharps, more pain, and more punishments and treatments for his disobedience were the core of the child's existence from that time on. In time Torry withdrew as far as he was able from all but the harshest voices, the roughest touches, and the terror of being found 'too much a bad boy to ever, ever 'came on home 'gen.' **TBC**

E**ND, NIGHT OF THE BLIND BEGGAR, VOLUME ONE OF TWO **by Rielle


	12. Chapter 12

SCENE TWELVE   Stephan Aynsley's home, south of Baltimore

Their 'grand endeavors' had failed, utterly.  At the moment they came closest to triumph, circumstances once more altered cases to defeat and destroy them. Stephan Johannes Aynsley, Herr Professor Doctor, Fellow of the Zurich, Munich, Amsterdam and Vienne Medical Societies, appointee to Emperor Franz Josef's entourage of physicians, sat in the empty laboratory of his empty house and contemplated his failures. And they were many and they were excruciating. He'd had the sharp taste of victory's laurels in his mouth, now he tasted cold ashes. Motives he cared not to describe or to label had taken him into Baltimore that day. Riding his black Lipizzaner stallion, a gift from the Imperial stables in _Vien_, the Austrian paid no heed to the clear, early autumn day, to the carts and light rigs and wagons passing him on the road, nor to the throngs on Baltimore's old, cobbled streets. There was only one place, only two persons in that whole city Aynsley sought for. When he found them, and knew their condition, then the rest of the world might take shape around him once more.

Liesl Marguerite had defied his wishes, once again. She'd left Aynsley's home, her home before sunrise. And she hadn't gone alone. Remiel Julien Boudin, a wealthy, power-hungry man Liesl was fond of saying she 'brought' to her uncle and to their 'grand endeavors', left at the same instant. Liesl hated riding, and detested the plebian necessities involved in that activity. She was an Aristocrat, after all, or would have been one, if this beknighted land had the good sense to cultivate a royal class. Therefore, Aynsley knew his niece must have accepted Boudin's open invitation to ride into the city in his phaeton, an overly decorated, overly weighted contrivance, well suited to Boudin's over-arching ambitions. What led Aynsley to carry his small physician's valise with him, the Austrian couldn't have said. What led him to stride up the staircase in the Maryland House Hotel, up to an even more crowded hallway, he couldn't comprehend. Neither the tools in his valise, nor his years of training in Zurich, in Munich, and in Vien were any use once he entered that scene, using as his alias the name of Liesl's late paternal uncle, Randall Branoch. The girl he sought was dead when he arrived, and thankfully so, the professional physician within the grieving uncle knew. Liesly was free now, to rejoin her sisters, her parents in whatever she thought of as 'Glory'.

Aynsley had only two more obligations to carry out himself now; to determine the status of his failed Courier, and to keep his own solemn oaths. Carefully listening more than talking, Aynsley learned that 'the madman' fled back through the Presidential suite and then 'vanished'. One part of the patterning held, after all, the Austrian bitterly considered. Months of learning by rote a well furnished maze, blindfolded, allowed Courier to escape, friend and foe alike. A few more judicious questions told Aynsley how events at the Maryland House unfolded, unraveled, more like, he thought.

Stephan Aynsley had no doubt that his thwarting-ally, his supportive-enemy, Boudin, absconded with Courier as thoroughly as he had with Liesl. The Georgian was a man of property, of parts and of wide reaching influence, all fueled by the assets he'd kept in Cuba, Haiti and in Brazil, during the Conflict. He was a man of strong habits, strange tastes and a deep need for vengeance. Liesl found that resonance with her own drives, Aynsley knew, magnetically attractive. Liesl was dead now, past vengeance, past hatred, past hurting. Courier, Aynsley found, following up his questions, his knowledge of Boudin's properties, was now an empty spirit, a silenced heart, a helpless, and half-buried child. Neither of the mad beings he'd followed to Baltimore would leave with him now, or ever. He had only one 'endeavor' left to complete.

In the wreckage of his expensive, irreplaceable vials and beakers, in the ruins of his notes and charts, in the silence of his once hectic laboratory, Stephan Johannes Aynsley thought over his wasted life and kept his final promises. Cold with his own failings and foibles, Stephan Aynsley lifted an oil lamp from the desk of his attic-study. Once more he surveyed the ruins of all plans and promises and pleadings. With a curse, the Austrian flung the lamp and its burning contents into the sea of paper he'd created. And somehow, amazingly, the Austrian found himself tautly smiling as the fire licked and spread and grew. Then, as the flames touched the threshold of his study, the physician 'cured himself' with a lethal dosage of morphine, sat down at his desk, and died.

A heavily sealed, oilskin-wrapped package, locked in an iron strongbox, at his feet now, would be discovered at the appropriate moment, by the appropriate persons. The Austrian's last journal, last letters, last will and testament, and his daguerreotypes of Liesl, her mother, sisters, baby brother and father lay within. No matter what else occurred now, in it's proper time, his last endeavor would reach its 'proper ends'. Clearly, 'the One' who'd revealed himself as Aynsley's True Enemy, Remiel Julien Boudin, had forgotten the old Viennese proverb Liesl was fond of reciting. 'Revenge is a dish,' the people of the old, Imperial city liked to say' Best served cold.'

They'll _believe they are done with _their greatest danger,_ when they find me he thought at the last. May they not wait too long, as I did, Remiel Julien, old friend, before learning exactly how wide of the mark they are!_


	13. Chapter 13

**Scene Thirteen - Baltimore State Asylum **

The figure crouching in the far corner of the ward hadn't moved in hours: except to pull inward on itself. Ragged garments hung from the wiry frame, obscuring it even further. A faded uniform blouse that had been bright blue at some past date, but made for a heavier, larger man's frame lay in tatters over the figure's shoulders. A pair of garishly striped hospital-issue trousers mostly covered the figure's legs and buttocks. But they were badly torn and threadbare at the knees and around their hems. With all that, and the way it huddled in on itself, the wearer was hardly recognizable as a man.

 He was recognized and closely observed, though, by one and only one person in this main ward of a crumbling asylum outside Baltimore.  That observer was also in the garb of an inmate here, as he'd taken on the role of one; in order to help the man he watched now. Those garments were even less well fitted to the watcher, who happened to be a dwarf, only three feet, six inches tall. But unlike the man across the ward, and most of the others held here, there was nothing wrong with the mind of this observer, nothing damaged in his intellect. His wide grey eyes showed a brilliant intelligence at work, noting every detail, every nuance and every movement of the man he watched. His high, wide brow, crowned with thinning strawberry blond hair, and his strong features belied the apparent weakness of his child-sized frame. In fact, his long boned hands and arms were stronger than many 'able bodied men's, from the sheer exertion of using canes, crutches and wheeled chairs to move his half crippled body where he wanted it, all his life.

_No, the observer noting all this thought. That man in the far corner_ _doesn't resemble a man, any longer; not nearly so much as he resembles the forms of stillborn infants. And I should know. I've studied hundreds of them, trying to understand my own—No; I am not here to reflect on my own lifelong obsessions. I can no more help what I was born, a dwarf with a wretchedly twisted spine, than he can help what he's become, a nearly helpless madman. And even now, I may have come too late to help—wait! He moved again, just now. He moved away from the light coming in from the high windows in the northern wall! These dullards! These fools! These so-called, self-named doctors here still think he's stone-blind. And he's been in their alleged care for well over a year! _

Moving away from the glaring late afternoon light himself, the observer now had the crouching man's dark head and sharp-featured face in his direct line of sight. Bright green eyes were sunk deep into that face, too gaunt now to be called handsome. And their brightness was caused, the observer was certain, by the harsh light stinging their damaged nerves. Those bright, blind eyes shifted again, seeking escape from the light they only registered as pain.

_Yes, he's blind. _The observer nodded to himself, _but not incurably so, if light affects his eyes that way._

_If only I had my bag here, my tools, my ophthalmoscope at the least! But I can't, not and keep my actions and my identity covert. So, to all appearances, I_

_ must seem to be only an inmate here, just as he is. I can't even seem to treat him. I know that. If I tried these sadists who masquerade as guards would separate us indefinitely, or put us each in isolation where No one can help. Damn those guards, and damn their heartless employers, too!  Damn all their vicious games and all the indifference their supervisors show! That man in the far corner isn't crouching there as if he was trying to disappear into the wall beside him because he welcomes their attention. He's too terrified to move a muscle, or make a sound! And whoever thought that could be? And who could blame him, or anyone in this so-called asylum for being afraid?_

For more than an hour the observer made a cautious progress along the main ward. Each step cost him pain, through every inch of his spine and legs. Every hour he spent in the smothering humidity of the open courtyard serving as the asylum's general ward in spring and summer, cost him further crippling. But he had given his word and he would not leave his promised task undone. The observer recalled explaining to the man he now approached that his crippled legs and spine kept him in constant, bone-grinding pain, pain enough to drive the soundest mind towards madness. Shame, surprise, even pity came clearly into the man's green eyes at that. The observer thought now, there might even have been some measure of understanding between them, after that particular revelation. But that had been years ago. They were captor and prisoner then, enemies to their last bitter breath.

_We two cannot be enemies now. Hard as that is to admit, we are both captive, here. _

_And you, my dear adversary, have become your own worst enemy. _The observer considered, still progressing towards that far corner of the ward and the man huddled there. _ I may pity you now, and I do. All my life's pain and envy never made wish to escape as you have, into such darkness and fear. No, my affliction made me greedy for life, at whatever high cost to others. And I am glad, after all, that my greed did not devour your life, as well. Yes, I believe I am truly glad. _

Dusk was falling by the time the observer reached the blind inmate. The observer stopped, watching and wondering how not to frighten the blind man into hysterics, as the guards so often did. Some of those same guards were working their way down the long ward, lighting the high lamps, so that the mandatory second meal of the day could be served. A guard would soon attempt to force feed the blind man, and likely drive him into a screaming fit with cruel laughter and taunting. Then the helpless man would be liable for 'treatment', which in this place meant brutal, degrading torture. Now the observer made up his mind and moved as best he could to prevent that sequence from starting again.

''Give me his bowl.'' He said, pointing out the blind man to the guard wheeling a pot of gruel down the ward. ''I'll feed him. I've done it before.''

''You mean you'll steal his food when he don't eat none.'' The guard growled, squinting down at the speaker. ''I can't 'llow that, an' you should know by now.''

''No, no, Sir.'' The observer replied, swallowing an angry response. ''I meant precisely what I said. I will feed him, without causing a scene.''

'' The hell you will!'' the guard snarled. But now he found himself unable to ignore the small man's steady stare. ''Aw, all right! I'm dog tired of fightin' with this here lunatic,_ just to get some danged gruel down his gullet,_ anyhow!''

A rough, grey wooden bowl now dropped into the dwarf's hands, and then was half filled with a lumpy, colorless substance, which passed for stew because it contained meat of some sort, and was lukewarm. _Small wonder the inmates resisted eating it until they're half starved,_ the small man thought. Now he needed to rouse the blind man for this alleged meal. This was a process the observer had gone through many times since arriving here, several weeks ago. The blind man responded to the scent of food, to any less brutal voice and manner, to genuine empathy, but only rarely to the observer as another person.

The dwarf wasn't yet sure if that meant the blind inmate couldn't comprehend anything outside his own skull as real, or if the worst damage done him here was to his ability to trust _Perhaps I am no more real to him than this nightmare place is. He becomes more withdrawn from everything and everyone, with each passing day. But where is it you've withdrawn to? I think I know. Let's test my memory and my theory to see if both are correct. _Another memory of this man nudged at the small doctor's mind. And he gave an ironic smile his old adversary couldn't see. This was of a very different time, in different circumstances. Trying to distract the doctor from what he was doing, which was, as always, another attempt to escape; the now blind man once confided a childhood nickname to him. And it surprised the doctor, because it wasn't a derivative of the man's first name at all. Instead it was an odd diminutive, used because both his namesake grandfather and uncle lived in the same rambling old house outside Norfolk, Virginia.

''Torry.'' The man told him, looking as if he'd like to take the word back again as fast as it came out.

'' Torry?'' the doctor had asked, frowning at finding this answer implausible.

'' Yes, Torry!'' his adversary replied, scowling back. '' It's short for Torrance. My uncle's name was James Torrance Kiernan Randolph. And I was named for him, James Torrance Kiernan West. So when my Uncle Jimmy moved home, Momma started calling me Torry, and it stuck all the while I was growing up. But it was just a family name, a baby name, Doctor. Something like being called _Miguelito,_ I'd imagine. Anything else that's of no possible use to you, that you'd like to know, Doctor?''

 ''Not at the moment, Major. West. And I'll thank you to show you comprehend what you just said; and call me properly by my true name, which is El Senor Doctor Miguel Enrique Raul de Olvidado y SinAmor de Cervantes, not Miguelito Loveless!''

_It was of no use then, my dear adversary. But now it may be very useful indeed._ . The man who had first introduced himself to West and his colleagues as Miguelito Loveless thought now. _Because now the answer to what you saw as another pointless question of mine, becomes, unless I'm very much mistaken, the key to unlock your inner prison and your hiding place. Now we can begin in earnest. Now I can give you a name you will answer to; after all these weeks of frustration I've spent here, after all the months you've spent either utterly silent or screaming in fear!   _

''Torry.'' The doctor whispered. '' Torry, come now, I've your supper here. Do you hear me, Torry?''

The dark, unkempt head came up from where it rested on the man's folded arms. The pale eyelids flickered and blinked. Like a young hunting dog, the blindman snuffed at the air around him, his mouth working silently into a tremulous frown.

''I won't hurt you, Torry. I promise I won't. And I have some supper for you, right here, Torry.''

Now the blind man stayed, frozen against the wall a moment longer. Then he flung himself towards the watcher, in the general direction of the bowl he held. The small doctor almost lost his balance, but kept hold of the trencher. Some food spilled out. The blind man ignored what landed on his clothes and reached out wildly towards the bowl, literally following his nose. And now the observer realized his own actions and words were completely misunderstood. The often tormented blind man clearly thought he was being merely being taunted, again.

''Torry,'' the doctor repeated. ''Torry, come now, give me your hands. Here, now, like this.'' Firmly grasping the blind man's wrists, he gently turned them so both palms were up.   ''That's it, Torry. Now, eat it. I know it's not Chateaubriand or even some of Antoinette's lovely stroganoff, or her bouillabaisse. But it's edible. And you must be hungry, Torry. I'm willing to wager you've had nothing at all to eat, while they had me in the infirmary the past few days.''

Dim astonishment at this treatment and the voice and the words it spoke wrote itself on the blind man's features. He was well used to brutality, now. Anything else was strange here, wrong, even frightening. But his hunger suddenly overwhelmed his paranoia. Scuttling back to his corner, more like a frightened spider than a man, he gobbled the food. Plainly he was still afraid someone else would take it away.

'' But you really shouldn't eat so very quickly, Torry.'' The doctor frowned. Then he rushed as best he could to help as the blind man doubled over, and was violently sick. After several minutes, the blind inmate lay heaving and shivering, miserable in the aftermath. He was almost sobbing with the shock combined with misery, hunger and fear to make him nearly helpless. ''You really have become a little boy called Torry, now, haven't you?'' the doctor asked, speaking with more gentleness yet. ''You've no more sense in your head than a … well; I'd say a five year old, do you? But what I don't know yet, what I need to find out, still is:  What in all the world is a sick, scared little boy called Torry doing here?''

The blind man turned his head obliquely in the direction of his companion now. He'd heard this somewhat high-pitched, ice-clear voice before, countless times. He had only a child-mind, now, and only a child's cloudy sense of time to tell him when. And he had no memory of those times. But he knew this voice was kind, this voice was never loud or angry with him, and this voice brought the blind man no memories of pain. And he knew only one voice that knew to call him by his veryiest own 'pecially sekrit an' gud naming, Torry.

''Mee-Gell?'' Torry whispered, hardly daring to let slip even those two sounds. ''Mee-Gell?'' he whispered again, reaching out for his onliest friend in this most scariest place.

''I'm here, Torry.'' Miguel answered, reaching for and once more grasping the blind man's hands, placing a tin cup in them. '' It's Miguel and I'm right here, Torry. And I have some water for you. And it's not too awfully old or stale. Here, now, the water's in this cup. No, sip it, Torry. Just take little sips, that's right.''

Gratefully the child/man sipped at the water until it was gone. Then he turned in the direction of that friendly voice. ''Mee-Gell, them baddes' an' mos' scaredy folks them came an' tookt you an' hurted on you, dint they?'' he asked still whispering but with solemn assurance of his fears.

Miguel knew he was staring at the child/man. He was astonished. Never in nearly two month's time had the blind inmate expressed a concern beyond his own terror, his own safety, or a fear beyond his own pain. He'd hardly seemed to recall his own situation, his own surroundings from one day to the next. And he'd barely spoken more than two words together, much less a full sentence, to anyone. Now he spoke, recalled and worried over Miguel's week old quarrel with the guards. The doctor had frankly expected to find a severe reversal in the child/man's condition on his return. This was instead a pleasant shock. A connection finally existed between them that could withstand separation. The child/man, who'd been more like a terrified infant when Miguel arrived, was 'growing'. Now Miguel saw and heard his theory proven. The blind man's childhood indeed held both the lock to his prison and the key to let him out, again.

''Mee-Gell,'' Torry repeated, when the doctor kept silent. '' Them veryiest maddy folks them yelled so many much! Torry couldn't not hear you anywheres! Them hurted on you, dint they?''

''No, Torry. I'm all right. They didn't hurt me. They know better than to let me start the kind of trouble I could make for them if they did. But they got angry, yes, they did, Torry. And they got angry because they were scared, now isn't that an odd thing, Torry?''

''Thems was skeered? Mee-Gell, thems mos' bades' folks, them was skeered?'' the child/man asked, scrunching his face in clear confusion now.

''Yes, they were. They're scared almost all the time, in fact. They're the rankest sorts of cowards, Torry. And cowards like those get angriest when they're the most scared of anybody anywhere. And they should be scared, Torry. Because I'm going to get just as loud and make just as much trouble from now on out, whenever they try to hurt you. And they're not going to stop me just by having me sit upstairs in their so-called infirmary for a few days. Because it makes me physically … it makes me very unhappy, Torry whenever such cowards and bullies hurt helpless children. And that's what I told them, a few days ago. And that's what I'll tell them again. They'll just have to find someone else, somewhere else to torment for their pleasure!''

Righteously angry, the doctor still managed to smile at himself for beginning a speech he'd often addressed to the man sitting beside him now. The difference being on those occassions the same man was standing whole and sound and sane towering over him. And Torry would understand neither Miguel's anger nor his grin if he could see them. In fact, Torry was looking a little frightened, himself, now. But what he was frightened of, surprised the small doctor again.

''Mee-Gell! Them will come on back an' them will make baddes' owwys on you! Them baddes' folks them teld Torry dat!'' Torry began to wail.

''And I will stand up here, just as I did to tell them what cretins and bullies they are, Torry! That's all it really takes to make such cowards back down, you just look them in the eye and show them you're not afraid a bit. They hate that, Torry. They truly do. And why? Because they want everyone else to be just as much afraid, just as scared as they are! So we're not going to give such fools what they want, no, not for a minute, Torry! So, you rest assured… Torry I promise you those bullies won't harm you or me, no, not even once again. I wish, in fact I'd come much sooner, so they couldn't hurt you at all. I truly wish that.'' Miguel said, and surprised himself, by recognizing his statement as true.

'' Y' couldn't, Mee-Gell. Couldn't not nobody be findin' Torry-little den. Them mos' awfully maddy an' scaredy folks, them hided Torry-little too many gud, 'reckon, den.'' The child/man shook his head and patted the small doctor's hand. ''Mees still dunno how come mees Quiet Tommy an' Temus, an' Jac an' Frankie, an dem ovver of Torry's frens did be findin' Torry.''

'' Well, they looked very hard for you, Torry.'' Miguel answered. ''Your friends kept on looking until they found out you were here. And then your Quiet Tommy and Jac came to me. They came and asked me to stay with Torry, here, when your friends could not. They wanted to stay, all of them, Torry, your Quiet Tommy and Jac, ' temus and all the others. And they did stay awhile. And they have come back sometimes, and they will, again. But the people here won't let all of them stay here at the same time. So, now, they're taking turns, at keeping an eye on you, at keeping you safe here. And so I came to stay all the time, Torry. And you're not so much scared, not all the time now, are you?''  

''Nun-uh.'' The child/man answered, thoughtfully chewing his lower lip as if the answer was there.

'' And that's a good first step. Those cowards want us to be afraid of them; they want us to be afraid of everything all the time, just as they are, Torry. And we won't. We won't do as they wish. And, Torry, when they see that, they won't want to come over and hurt you ever again, seeing that you're so brave. And that I promise you.'' Miguel soothed the child. _But how many reasons not to trust my oaths lie buried somewhere with your adulthood, I wonder, Major West?  How many times have I lied to you, or you to me, to achieve our constant cross-purposes? Well, we have the same purpose now, whether you can somehow realize it now, or not. And won't you be surprised when you find it out?_

''Well, there's no more chance of some supper tonight, Torry. Not that I wanted any. They've taken their stewpot away. So now I want you to go to sleep.'' Miguel told the child/man. ''You really must try, Torry.''

'' Nun-uh, wanna stay waked up an' talk nows, Mee-Gell.'' Torry protested, shaking his head and frowning.

''You don't want to sleep, you mean. And I've nothing to give you to help you sleep without your bad dreams. I wish I did, Torry. How long has it been since you slept through the night, I wonder? Do you know, Torry? No, I'm sure you don't. ''

Miguel shook his head, he didn't need a verbal answer, and the child/man's face was haggard with exhaustion. ''Now do as I ask, Torry. Lie back at least, and rest.''

''Mee-Gell, you'll be stayin' an talkin' some more wif Torry?'' Torry bargained childishly, with a half smile stretching across his face.

'' I'll stay right here. I've nowhere else to go, tonight, in any case. Lay back and close your eyes now, Torry. I'll stay.'' Miguel promised.

Reluctantly, twining his hand in Miguel's for comfort, Torry obeyed. Miguel was the only person the child willingly obeyed. He was also the only person Torry had voluntarily spoken to, in fifteen months. And oddly enough, despite the number of compassionate friends the grown man had, Miguel turned out to be the only one who knew any of Torry's childhood secrets. And that was the other key, the small doctor knew from his own practice, his own treatment of many sick children and his own experience of fatherhood.

 Trusting 'Mee-Gell', and exhausted, Torry soon slept. He had no more strength to sit awake and ponder, as the doctor did now. The ragged, emaciated child/man sleeping beside Miguel now was actually thirty-two years old, this past March 1st. Yet as Miguel recalled from his own deeply detailed memory and yet more detailed dossier on James Torrance West; the 'baby-name' Torry had not survived in the world outside his grandmother's house, once the child was five and his mother died. It was hardly used even within the family, once the child was nine years old and entered boarding school. From then on, he was only called "'James'' or "'Jim'' by his classmates, Army colleagues and friends. And because West's namesake uncle was often called ''Jimmy'' his sister's son rarely had or used that nickname, either.

Yet now he only responded to that 'family-name', that 'baby-name' Torry. And that had been one of the sticking points West's friends and colleagues encountered once they'd found him here. When called James, or Jim, or West for that matter, the child/man gave no response, no indication at all that he understood they were addressing him. Thomas Macquillan, the agent's team leader reported this as only one of the problems West's friends had after the soldier-agent was located in this asylum. Other difficulties arose from the fact that he'd been admitted under a false name, Jonathan Traherne North, by way of fraudulent commitment documents. The legalities of all that were still being worked out, and were none of Miguel's concern.

The concern he shared with those agents, Macquillan, Harper, Pike, Richmond, Jacques D'eglisier and Artemus Gordon, was that this ostensibly grown man had retreated more than twenty seven years into a frightened, dream shrouded semblance of his early childhood. And in that retreat he'd cast off all his schoolboy, adolescent and adult memories. And in that backward momentum, he'd lost any means of escape. To all intents and purposes he was

a five or five and a half year old boy, called Torry, again. And this disassociation, Miguel considered, might or might not have more than just one scared little boy as its means of expression. For the time being, blindness was the least of Torry's dilemmas, the doctor realized. The child-mind didn't even seem to register its blindness as anything but the norm.

_Indeed, in our present circumstances it may be a great help that you can't see me, Torry. I don't like to consider how the sight of ''Miguelito Loveless'' would affect you, just now. You've quite enough enemies, some of them within your own mind, just now as it is. For now it may be just as well you are a little boy called Torry. I've always found children far easier to reach, in many ways. _On the other hand, the doctor was learning that Torry's fifteen-month silence was something viciously enforced upon him; something he was just beginning to shed, when he felt completely safe. And as strange as it seemed, this child/man only felt safe in the company of a handful of men who had also, only been antagonists, before now. 

They were Artemus Gordon, whose name Torry shortened to 'Temus, Colonel Richmond who the child called 'Gen'rl' for some unknown reason, the team's doctor, a Quebecois named Jacques D'eglisier, the team's leader, called simply 'Jac', Benjamin Franklin Harper, called 'Frankie' by the child/man, Thomas Macquillan, whose calm temperament apparently won him the name of 'm Quiet Tommy', and now, Miguel de Olvidado y SinAmor de Cervantes, who Torry, doing his four year old best, called 'Mee-Gell'. 

Smiling as the summer moonlight filled the courtyard, Miguel considered himself. At age forty, he had barely the height of a tall four year old. Dwarfism restricted his frame, his arms and legs in childlike proportions, but not his skull or the ingenious mind within it. Other than that, having his spine and legs severely damaged at birth had the greatest effect on his life, leaving Miguel crippled and constantly pain-ridden_._

_ I was a breach birth, and so my legs and my spine were appallingly twisted by an ignorant so called physician who pushed mi madre's midwife out of the birthing room! They remain twisted so badly they cannot function to this day without pain, Torry. And so are your memories, now, Torry-little. But I know I can heal your memory, as No one, including myself can heal my own crippling. And when you know I was the only one who could accomplish that healing for you, well once I would have said that would greatly satisfy me. But now, Torry, now I'm not so certain. Now I think I want more than that, I think I want that understanding we both avoided having of one another, while we were 'at war'. Yes, I believe when I see **that** understanding in your eyes that will greatly satisfy me, James Torrance West!  _


	14. Chapter 14

**Scene Fourteen :** Baltimore, MD Baltimore State Asylum.  1874

Waiting for the visiting doctor to turn his way, Miguel noticed the black leather valise, standing open on a low shelf. It was a matter of ridiculous ease for the small man to avail himself of the bag's most useful contents. To his own humiliation, Miguel had once narrowly survived by such pickpocket means. But now he wanted only such items as would help his work with Torry. In minutes he had what he wanted, secreted in the pocket of his hospital garb. That done, Miguel grinned cheerfully at the doctor, when Jacques D'eglisier happened to glance his way.

''You may go, now, m'sieur.'' Jacques turned back to the inmate he was treating. '' But you will not cure that cough with such medicine as you have been taking. Comprendez vous?''

The inmate nodded and climbed down from the examination table, already coughing from that exertion as he left the makeshift infirmary. Sighing deeply the doctor turned to study Miguel, holding the dwarf in a thoughtful hazel gaze. Miguel calmly studied the Quebecois immigrant right back.

M'sieur le Docteur Jacques Merlion Etienne D'eglisier was, at first glance, just one more of the sound, strong young agents of the Secret Service, whom Miguel had long envied. He was close in age, no more than four or five years older than James West, and as highly skilled in surgery as he was in the general practice he seemed to prefer. Yet Jacques D'eglisier was also an odd combination of parts, Miguel thought, and not for the first time. Settled for years in Montreal, he was actually born in Lyons. He'd had the chance to study at the Sorbonne and take up research there; but returned to 'British

North America' within months of the late War's beginning. He had a powerful, compact build, and a stubborn set to his shoulders that spoke of great determination. And yet his handsomely molded features, crowned by a head of thick, sandy hair, spoke more clearly of a vast compassion, that lead this man to spend himself in pursuit of the art of healing others.

And his wide, wise hazel eyes showed the heart of a poet, Miguel considered, a poet who lurked in the wings, often letting himself be overshadowed by more dynamic individuals, patiently putting them back together when their dynamism proved volatile. And as Miguel found that more and more he couldn't envy Torry at all, he also found D'eglisier's vivid concern for Torry and all the inmates here, made any old bitterness between them pointless. Jacques now took a cautious look at the infirmary doorway, and seeing the guard was still there, turned back to Miguel with a tentative smile and a raised eyebrow. '' And your name, m'sieur?'' he asked, as if meeting the small doctor for the first time.

''Miguel.'' The dwarf answered, nodding and joining the 'game'.

''Miguel? This is a Spanish name for Michel, non?'' Jacques asked, with a taut grin. 

'' Non, m'sieur le docteur. History indubitably shows us that the survivors of Carthage' war with Rome, settled Iberia as it was called, long before any civilization arose in its nearest neighbor to the north, that being Gaul. Therefore Michel is a French name for Miguel, not the other way 'round.''  Miguel lectured.

Jacques shook his head, this was a conversation he'd had numerous times before, with the small doctor, and believed he would have numerous times again. '' What is it you want, Miguel? How can I help you, today? I fear I cannot ease the arthritis in your limbs. Not in such a climate as this.''

Miguel frowned at the tall, heavy set guard, and then smiled happily, knowing just what he needed to do to send their unwanted attendant on the run.  ''I wanted to tell you, M'sieur le Docteur, of the terrible abuses going on in this institution! I want you to take a report directly to the county, state and Federal officials, at the highest level possible! The men here aren't treated as inmates, much less as patients. They're treated as prisoners here, m'sieur! And my understanding is, the county licenses this vile place to treat the indigent and the genteel poor and elderly of this part of the city! So such horrid treatment, such terrible conditions amount to nothing less than false imprisonment on a terrific scale!''

Just as Miguel hoped.  the guard leaned further and further towards the room for a moment then scuttled away, looking like nothing more than an overfed scorpion.

''Bravo, mon ami.'' Jacques said, nodding and softly applauding. '' I was considering that as well as half a dozen other means of removing him from the doorway, allowing us to talk. Bravo. Now, since he will return with all due haste, what have you come up here to tell me, Senor Doctor? How is Jim, that is, how is Torry?''

'' He's in great trouble, and in great need of your immediate aid, mon ami.'' Miguel answered him bluntly. '' No sooner were you and your colleagues called away, and unable to openly or covertly stand watch, than these scoundrels did exactly what I've feared they would since coming here, myself. They made some excuse or other to separate Torry from me. They said he had a contagious fever, and since I am not here officially here as a doctor, I could hardly contradict them, now could I? Nevertheless, I protested that the child needed me, and that he greatly depends on me, now. And for just a moment I thought one of those dullards was going to admit that Torry's dependence on me was their reason for removing him from the main ward! Instead, when I protested further, they dosed my water and I was unconscious for hours!''

''And where is Torry, now, Miguel? Do you have any idea in what condition he is?'' Jacques demanded, his wide hazel eyes wider now with alarm.

'' I almost wish I could say I don't.'' Miguel bitterly admitted, trembling with anger now. ''But they removed him to one of the so-called treatment rooms behind the main cold-weather ward. And in those rooms, you can ask any man in this so-called asylum, the only treatments given are torture! The men taken there are beaten, or they are subjected to so-called hydro-therapy, which you may know means locking them in a tub of water, either freezing cold or boiling, for hours on end, or they are … even more violently … abused.''

'_'Mon Di-u!''_ Jacques exclaimed, raising a blunt fist towards the ceiling, and bringing it down again to his upturned palm. '_'Mon Di-u!_ What _batards _have we left James in the hands of now? And why did I not insist on staying here, while the others went down to the District, this last week? I am _un docteur, non_, first, before I am a particularly useless excuse, as it seems in this case, for a friend, much less for a Federal _agent provocateur_!''

'' I don't mean to say that you and your colleagues could have prevented this, _Mon docteur_ _d'ami'.''_ Miguel told the Canadien. '' These cowards have been looking for any opportunity to reinstate the abuse Torry received at their hands before Thomas found him here in the spring. And I could not prevent them! I could not stop them, and when I tried they certainly found the means to stop me! But now you must go as quickly as you can, Jacques. Go back to those rooms, as fast as you can, find Torry there, and help him!''

''And so I shall. And you shall come with me, Mon docteur d'ami. James… Torry still has no memory, no recollection of our friendship or myself. Without you I would surely frighten him all the more. '' Jacques insisted.

'' I am not permitted to leave the ward at all, except to come up here.'' Miguel grumbled.'' That's why I have come! Torry can't wait for your help, Jacques. I am afraid he may be in emergent need. You must go!''

'' And with the authority I carry, the authority of the State and Federal medical authorities, Miguel, if I say I need your assistance in aiding a man in any part of this government licensed institution, then you will come with me. And in this case, without doing too much injury to your professional dignity, Mon ami, I believe I can provide adequate transportation, if you will at the appropriate moment, take hold of my valise.'' Jacques lifted Miguel to the exam table, and turned his back to the small doctor. Seeing his intent, Miguel shook his head and climbed onto the younger man's back, ignoring the complaints of his own legs and arms. When he was well settled, Miguel swallowed a laugh at the sight they must make and grasped the handle of the black valise.  ''Ver' well, Mon docteur d'ami! Allons y!''   ' 'Jacques called out, as they heard footsteps pounding up the outer corridor.

In another few minutes the pair of doctors were in the freight elevator at the other end of that corridor, and headed down to the main ward and the rooms behind it. In less than another quarter of an hour they found Torry in the treatment room farthest from the main ward, bound in a straitjacket and terrified. He'd been left perched on a long wooden table, equipped with long leather restraints. His whole frame shook, but not from any fever, and his blind eyes were wild with fear, hearing the door open and Jacques' entering the room.

'_'Sacre!_'' Jacques exclaimed, as he set Miguel on the table and started to work on the straps. '' Jim! _Au succors!_ _Mon enfant,_ **you taught me** how to escape one of these horrid contrivances!''

But now Torry was too alarmed even to respond at first to Miguel's voice, much less Jacques. He twisted away from the small doctor's hand on his arm, and tried to scream in a raw throat. He could not be freed, or helped in this nearly hysterical state, so Jacques, after retrieving the syringe from Miguel, sedated the child/man and he began to fall asleep. Not fast enough, when Jacques again started to remove the cruel garment, Torry struggled and cried out in fear.

''Torry, it's me. It's Miguel, and I've brought our friend Jac, to help you now. Torry, it's Miguel. I'm here, so is Jac and we're going to get this horrid shirt off you. So try to be still a moment or two, and then we'll have this hurting thing gone!''

''Mee-Gell?'' Torry finally rasped, his voice shaking as badly as his gaunt frame. ''Mee-Gell?''

''That's right, Torry. That's right, it's Miguel. And I brought our _docteur d'ami,_ Jac.''

The drug was finally having its wanted effect. Torry was leaning hard against Jacques' strong frame and not even murmuring as they tugged the torture device from his arms and finally freed his torso as well. With a surgeon's deftness, Miguel loosened the last straps and both doctors frowned to see the evidence on Torry's thin back. The small doctor was right, and not glad to find it out. Torry had been 'treated' with his worst beating in months, they saw, written in deep bruising and not a few cuts and welts. Torry wasn't reacting at all as the doctors went on examining him. His restless, blind eyes were dulled now and his whole frame slumped against Jacques.

''Mee-Gell?'' the child/man whispered. ''Jac?''

''We're here, Torry. Right here.'' Miguel answered, taking Torry's hand, as Jacques went on with his scowling examination of Torry's injuries.

'' 'M goin' asleepin.'' Torry slurred, sounding surprised. In another moment he was shallowly asleep on the long table

Now Jacques D'eglisier went on examining and treating the cuts and welts on Torry's back and arms. But he was shaking with barely contained rage, as he found more and more evidence of the brutal attack. His wide hazel eyes shone with tears as well. This was Jim West, a long time friend; he'd treated for many kinds of ailments and wounds received in the line of duty, yes. But this was also a helpless child, so far as Torry was able to comprehend. When he'd done all he could without waking the child, Jacques strode back to the open doorway of the 'treatment room and pounded one blunt fist against the doorjamb to vent his outrage, in part.

'' It wasn't the doorjamb that beat Torry so badly, mon docteur d'ami.'' Miguel quietly pointed out, with a wry smile.

_''Non, c'était ces sadiques, qui ont fait ceci!'' _Jacques whispered harshly in his native tongue_.  _''No, my friend, it was those sadists, masquerading as guards here who did this; and to a sick and defenseless child! _De tels laches ils sont!_ Such cowards they are! I am only glad to say there is no sign that they inflicted internal injuries on Torry with this 'treatment'. No doubt they know better than to beat a man in their so-called care to death! Miguel, Mon ami, we must work faster and more ingeniously! We cannot allow you or the child to remain here_. Non, pas a la pitié de tels batards, des monsters tels que ceci!'' _

_''Bien sur, mon ami, certainment.'' _Miguel agreed, shaking his head.'' And the tangled legalities you and your friend Thomas explained to me, used to imprison Torry here in the first place; how do you progress with their disentanglement?''

 Jacques sighed and turned around to answer the small doctor. '' It becomes more complicated by the day, Mon ami. It should be a simple, direct matter, we thought at first, to establish James' false commitment here. Now, five months and more after finding James here, we have a dozen more attorneys aiding Thomas with the process! Damné le!''

'' Torry's father having passed away seven years ago has certainly cut off your most direct route to getting him properly identified and freed. '' Miguel noted and gave Jacques a taut, half smile when the younger doctor looked surprised. '' I believe his grandparents are also deceased, Jean Torrance Randolph, his maternal grandmother, having died only three and a half years ago, not long before Torry took on this case. But my best information was that Torry's namesake, g-dfather and maternal uncle still survives.

 And James Torrance Randolph, a renowned Virginia trial attorney, legislator and prosecutor himself, albeit retired, could surely make quick work of this purportedly legal deception. Is he out of the country again? Have you looked for him at his estates near Port au Prince, Havana, St. Thomas, Rio de Janeiro and Guadalajara?''  Miguel went on, reciting some of what he knew of West's family connections.

'' We have, we did, Mon ami, only to discover he traveled to Cyprus three years ago. He left, after settling his mother's estate; to stay with his recently widowed daughter, Jeanne, and her daughter, Avril. '' Jacques sighed and walked back to the table to check on Torry, again.

'' The trans-Atlantic post is notoriously slow and laborious, I've found, myself.'' Miguel nodded.

'' No doubt, when word of this latest trouble reaches James Randolph, and his daughter, they will make all due haste in returning home.''

'' _Sans doute._'' Jacques agreed, his bright hazel eyes flashing. '' Jim and his cousin Jeanne have long been close friends. They both lost their mothers at

 an early age and were for the most part raised by their grandmother, Jeanne. But we cannot wait on her or her father's return! This so-called asylum is anything but that, as you've found out, Miguel, mon ami. It needs to be closed down and it's inmates properly transferred and cared for, elsewhere!

My colleagues and I have occupied no little time in persuading the county, state and Federal officials of that fact. And that may be accomplished before we have established that the man held here as '' Jonathan Traherne North is in fact, James Torrance West! For now though, I will carry our young friend to the infirmary, Miguel. You will remain with him there, on my orders to the miserable excuse for an Administrator this facility has. And I will prolong my visit here until Torry is somewhat improved. I know no other way to force this wickedness to cease! I will not abide such iniquities being practiced under the guise of medical care!'' 

''Thank, you, docteur.'' Miguel said. '' As frail as he is, transporting Torry from here to there would be as daunting a task for me, as transporting myself. Thank you.''

'' Don't thank me, Miguel.'' Jacques said, shaking his head and sitting down dejectedly next to where Torry still slept. '' I have been away from here more often than not, in these five months and more. Nor did I have any luck while we searched for Jim West. Non, it was Thomas and Artemus' whose perseverance at last paid off. They were tireless, even when we all despaired of finding Jim alive. Our own Colonel Richmond joined the search, saying often that as he'd been a great friend of Jim's late father, he felt a debt was greatly owed. Thomas was M'sieur West's friend, as well, and refused, on more than one occasion to consider bringing Jim home again, only to bury him beside his father.''

'' Then Torry owes his life to them, and to you as well, mon docteur d'ami.'' Miguel said, laying one small hand on Jacques shoulder to comfort him.

'' And to you, Miguel, Torry and Jim both will owe their sanity.''   Jacques said, and suiting action to words, gathered Torry into his strong arms, waited for Miguel to resume a perch on his back, and set off so burdened for the lift. They were met by protesting guards whom both doctors blankly ignored, and finally by the Assistant Administrator, a foppish, foolish, rotund, balding man with an annoying sort of pinched voice to match his irritating manner.

'' Docteur D'eglisier!'' the latter whined, despite getting quite out of breath, as Jacques proceeded into the lift and from there back to the infirmary. ''Docteur D'eglisier, you have disrupted all our proper procedures and processes here, again today, _m'sieur le docteur!_ How are we to maintain any order or properly functioning procedures here, when you and your various high handed colleagues patently ignore all such things?''

''M'sieur l' Administrator,'' Jacques just barely kept himself from sneering. '' The processes and procedures you are so much concerned with are anything but what's proper! The men left in your putative care are half starved, ill clothed, and regularly exposed to all but the worst weather conditions. And as I saw again today, they are being deliberately, _viciously_ mistreated! You, I believe, have no medical degree to speak of, and neither does your mostly absent superior! And that one fact by itself should have disbarred you both from any such post!

These men are severely physically and mentally ill, m'sieur. And they are indigents, without the means to pay for better care! But they stand in great need of decent care, nevertheless!  You and your superior have a mandate from the county health officials to see to just such sad cases. Said officials and those of the state to do just that have licensed you and this facility. Yet the men in your supposed care have no fresh water here, unless there is sufficient rainfall. They receive no medicine for their various fevers and infections. They have no real shelter from the climate in that courtyard you have the immense gall to designate as your main ward! Moreover you have made it a practice to purchase the cheapest and worst sort of corn meal to feed these men, such that it is indigestible! And this was something I had not seen, m'sieur, since observing and caring for men released from Andersonville!''

''And he's not even bringing up the question of how many men here have been falsely imprisoned.'' Miguel added dryly, smiling at the badly flustered official.

'' There are none such here, Docteur D'eglisier.'' The beaureaucrat claimed, ignoring Miguel as they rounded the corner of the corridor outside the infirmary, and entered there.  '' None, I do assure you.''

'' Then you are either being fooled yourself or you yourself are falsifying. '' Jacques scowled again as he laid Torry on the only cot in the room with anything like a mattress.  '' But you can rectify all those failings, all those acts of criminal neglect, m'sieur, starting in this room _et immediatement._''

'' Well we have done exactly what you and your colleagues insisted on up here, Docteur! We have opened a room that can and is being used as an infirmary, by our own staff doctors and those like yourself who so charitably donate your time.'' The functionary claimed.

Miguel looked around at the jumble of broken tables, dilapidated cots and cast off examination tools and had to fight the urge to laugh in the man's quite laughable ruddy face. Jacques turned to glance at the small doctor, and nearly began laughing himself. Then Torry stirred on the cot, the softest surface he'd had to sleep on in more than a year and a half. And now both doctors moved to ease him. They didn't notice and didn't care when the administrator snuck out. But when Jacques saw another tall, muscle bound guard posted in the corridor, he smiled tautly and closed the door on the man's confused expression.

'' Torry's still asleep.'' Miguel told his new colleague. '' He was just turning onto his left side. He much prefers…''

'' To sleep in that position, oui.'' Jacques finished for him, nodding. ''He has done so, as long as we've known one another, since the first, most bitter, winter of the late War.  So, Mon docteur d'ami, what shall we do to make this room a viable infirmary, since these idiots clearly would not do so, if they knew how?''

''Well, mon docteur d'ami. The truth is this whole complex should be razed to the ground. It's one of the oldest set of buildings in Baltimore, to start with. And it's been used as not only warehouses but a slaughterhouse as well at one time. The stink of that process can still be found to linger in some corners here, I do assure you.'' Miguel answered him in all seriousness. '' Not only that, I'm reliably informed a slave market once thrived here, some 90 years ago, or so. And the courtyard that serves as the main ward for two thirds of the year, is crumbling, riddled with mold, insect's hives, and other, much less pleasant things, including what I can only describe to you as the kind of midden you'd expect to find in a medieval village, not in a 19th century asylum!''

'' D'accord, Miguel, d'accord.'' Jacques nodded sighing at the description. ''But since even my superiors and their superiors do not have that much authority, nor that much of the wherewithal needed to build a new asylum here; not before another winter begins, at least. So, I would say we merely need to evacuate this complex and find new homes for the five hundred and … however many men housed here, most with nowhere else to go.''

''Five hundred and eighty seven.'' Miguel told him. '' Three more of the weakest inmates died last night. And I greatly feared that number would rise to

four. I am certain they would have returned to abuse Torry further and then likely murder him outright if you had not arrived, today! And this is what I understand was going on before your friend Thomas found the child, non? Jacques, am I wrong to suspect Torry's death here has been their intention all this while but somehow they've failed to achieve it?''

'' Mon ami, I wish I did not agree with your assessment. In all the time we know now Jim West was imprisoned here, a year and a half, before this past April, whenever a clear opportunity arose, their own records show he was isolated from the main population and severely injured. It was no wonder then, that he, that Torry, would allow none of us to so much as touch his hands or his face, or his lower limbs when we found him. When we tried, he fell into a dreadful state indeed. And as Thomas and I reported when we approached you, Torry would neither speak nor respond to anything we said. I myself feared he'd become comment t'on dit… catatonic. We had not known, or had forgotten how his family addressed Jim, when he was a small boy.'' Jacques sighed, looking at Torry.

 '' As he is, once more. And we still have no understanding of what has caused this strange regression. We have nothing to tell us how Jim West became small Torry. Nor do we know what transpired with him for a period of ten months, before the day he was so horridly injured, blinded. We have a thousand questions to ask about all this, and presently no one who's able to answer.''

''And that impasse brought you and Thomas Macquillan to me, to ask my help; I'm glad to say.'' Miguel tried to reassure the Canadien.

''Yes, so you seem. But I admit, Miguel, mon nouvel ami, I do not know why you should be glad, as you say, to help Jim West with anything at all. You and he, you and all of us working with Thomas all this while, have been only adversaries. Nor do I believe it was my arguments, at our meeting some months ago, that persuaded you to do this hazardous task.''

''So what did?'' Miguel grinned, guessing the younger docteur had held that question back for some time.  ''That's quite simple, in a sense. And quite complicated, too. Fatherhood, my experience of it, since my son, Micah Juanillo was born, has rendered changes of many kinds in my life, and my thinking, too. Motherhood has made some of those same changes in the attitudes and philosophies of my Antoinette, as well. And she has always been able to persuade me from one perception to another, from old ways of seeing things, to new ones.

Micah Juanillo has taught me a great deal as well, and more all the time, as he is nearly four years of age, now. But in fact, it was not them or you, Jacques, nor Thomas Macquillan who convinced me to come to this pesthole and give my help. Instead, it was the man Torry was himself, five and a half long years ago. It was James West, whose actions then, led me to come to his aid. Ah, I see you do remember when I made my pledge to do just that.'' 

'' It would be difficult, mon ami, for anyone in that courtroom to forget. You were incensed, so it seemed, that my friend Jim West saved you and your Antoinette from drowning. And you made an oath, going so far as to do it in the witness box, that you would repay that debt, that you would save Jim West, 'when no one else can.' And that time is now, _vraiment_?''

'' _Truly_, yes, that time is now. And yes, I made that oath, caught up as I was in pleading for a continuance, for a mistrial, for any sort of leniency from the court at all, due to my wife's delicate condition just then and my own health. Major West and I hated each other, there was no common ground, no possibility of an understanding between us. And yet, West saved my life, and Antoinette's, and with her life, that of our unborn child, our son! It was, to me, an insupportable obligation; one, which I swore to repay when the time came that no one else, could save West. And so I am doing, and so I shall continue to do, at the very least until he is once more aware enough to understand what I've done. So he must recover first.

 I do not undertake debts or oaths with or enact revenge on sick and helpless children! Children have always been my special study, my main practice as a doctor, and my first priority in a world where they are treated, as so many chattels to be displayed and discarded at will! I have dreamt, I have planned; and I have long hoped for a world where children need never be terrified of the 'big people' or the 'grown folks'.

Well, Torry has been a terrified child for more than a year that we know of. He remains so frightened at this point he cannot even begin to say why. And so long as Torry remains a child, I will help him, I will comfort him, and I will defend him, Jacques as I would any sick child. And I will cure him. And then, mon ami, and only then; when I've restored his full comprehension, his full set of faculties to him, will I lay my cure in burning coals on James West's head. Now do you understand?''

'' I believe I do, Miguel. '' Jacques agreed. ''And this is my understanding of the actions or events which brought you here:  My friend and partner James West followed you to that river, knowing it was near flood stage, as apparently you did not. Once there, he found you and Antoinette, and I believe, if I understand you correctly, she was enceinte, possibly for as much as five months, just then. James saw you trying to complete your escape in a rowboat neither one of you could manage. And he knew he could have waited onshore for you both to be swept down river and drowned. Instead, Miguel, James noted your rowboat was sinking almost as fast as that river was flowing. He tore off his suit jacket, left his weaponry on the riverbank and dove in, swimming at a terrific pace, until he reached the two of you, struggling in the water.

 And when you made it clear that you cared only for Antoinette's safety at that point, James started for the riverbank with her, unconscious, more or less under one arm. Then Antoinette roused somewhat, enough to see you were still holding onto the upturned boat. She screamed, so James told me later, and fought and kicked, so that they both might have drowned then and there. But he brought her to the river's bank, and went back for you. And your son, your first healthy, thriving son, christened Micah Santo Iago Marais y de Cervantes, was born, something like four months later. And I can't help noting that both Jacques and James are names that, according to the theory you were expounding again, earlier today, were derived from the Spanish name, Iago. But I wasn't on that riverbank. ''

''Strictly etymologically speaking; James_,_ _Jacques_, and _Iago_ all derive from the Latin _Iacomus_, which derives from the Hebrew, _Iakov or Yakov_. And all six names carry the meaning 'supplanter'; based on the Hebrew Bible's story of Jacob, who supplanted his brother, Esau.'' Miguel explained, as calmly as if he were discussing a mathematics problem and its solution. ''And no, my friend, you were not at that horrid river, that day. West was, and so here I am.''   

''Bien sur.'' Jacques nodded. '' Oh, there was one more point you might find interesting, even at this late date, mon ami. James also told me, when we spoke of it, that the tremendous, the genuinely selfless love you and Antoinette have for each other only became clear to him, on that day.''

 ''She bears the other half of my soul, Mon ami. '' Miguel said, so quietly now, Jacques almost missed it. '' I truly doubt I could, or would even wish to exist without her. And that reminds me. At your last visit you mentioned possibly traveling to Richmond and bearing my letters to Antoinette. Inmates here don't exactly have postal privileges. Are you going there any time soon, and if so, when?  I have a number of letters for her and also the reports I'm sending on Torry, so she can check through the research work I have on file there for anything that may help. Well, when can you go?''  

 Jacques smiled at the small doctor's impatience. ''I was preparing to train to Richmond at week's end, mon ami. Should I wire Mme. de Cervantes, before leaving? Or will she allow me access to your research, if I arrive, unannounced, as it were?''

'' I will send you with a note of re-introduction.'' Miguel smiled back. ''Antoinette knows I will not send anyone I cannot trust to our home, with Micah Juanillo there as well. And as surprising as it may be for you to hear, it's all the more surprising to me, to say: I have come to trust you, Jacques D'eglisier.'' 

'' And I to trust you, Miguel de Cervantes. May I then also read these reports of yours?''  Jacques asked, wondering how long this mutual trust would survive James West's promised recovery.

''Bien sur. '' Miguel nodded.  ''You have been Torry's doctor quite a while longer than I, after all. Read them and ask me whatever questions you'd like, Jacques. But first I have yet another task, another favor to ask of you. Please, if you will, examine Torry's eyes. I've done so myself; but without any implements here of course, I know my findings may be less than wholly accurate. Oh, and I'd like to keep the ophthalmoscope you brought with you, so I may make more frequent assessments of his visual acuity.''

''His visual…'' Jacques gaped at the older doctor. '' He has none, Miguel! Nor has there been any reason in all this time to think he can regain even minimal vision. What brings you to such an unorthodox prognosis?'' 

Miguel turned from walking over to Torry's cot, and stared at the Canadien. ''Doctor, do you mean to say… Do you actually want me to believe you've taken no notice of Torry's marked reactions to differing levels of light in that courtyard? He consistently turns his head away from the brightest light source whatever it is, in his surroundings. He squeezes his eyes shut morning and evening alike when the high windows of the inner ward here filter in the intense light of sunrise and sunset, alike! His eyes tear up incontrovertibly when exposed to any light source closer than a yard away! And all these things have led me to believe his vision can be at least partially restored, through the surgery I …''

''Surgery?'' Jacques repeated, not feeling particularly bright doing so. ''Surgery on his eyes?''

''Well not on his ears, mon docteur d'ami.'' Miguel couldn't help chuckling. '' There's nothing wrong with Torry's hearing. And so I would suggest you lower your voice, somewhat. I said surgery, that I've developed to the point of no small confidence that it can and will repair precisely this type of injury, that is to say, burning.''

"Miguel, _j'mescuse._ We have, since finding James… finding Torry here, asked the advice and consultation of several fine ophthalmologists. And all of them indicated the damage done his eyes was irrevocable. Not only that, they reaffirmed what we already knew, that any such procedure, if it existed, would take hours longer than any surgery now being done. That means hours on end for James, under the best and strongest anesthesia available.

And with the bronchial infections we see evidence of Jim, of Torry suffering last winter, his breathing through such an ordeal would be even more dangerously compromised than in a perfectly healthy patient. Also, unless you have invented and forged them yourself, _mon ami_, there are no surgical instruments existing for such delicate work, so close to his brain!''

''Well as to that last, I have done, in fact.'' Miguel assured the Canadien. '' And as to your other main concerns, _mon ami_, my procedures would be done in the smallest, briefest of increments, surely. One would first need to remove the damaged tissue, insofar as that's possible with all this time passed since his injury. And even doing that much would only allow us to discern if any viable nerves, tissue, or structures of the eyes, one eye at a time, remain. And if Im correct in my assessment, the major damage done was to his corneas, which I would replace with undamaged ones; not to the optic nerve.''

'' His corneas? James corneas… which you would **replace**?'' Jacques echoed, stunned once more by the small doctor's confident tone and expression.

 '_'mon docteur-ami, j'mescuse mais, c'est impossible!_ Even if one could perform such an operation on a human eye, **without **effecting permanent brain damage… where in creation would these replacements be found? And how, if they were somehow, magically obtained, would one go about transferring healthy corneas to a damaged optical … system… and cause them to function … properly, once more? You're talking about a living organ, mon ami! You're talking about taking a living organ from one …person and transferring it, with all it's attendant blood vessels and functions intact … to another … person! Miguel, it's not even remotely feasible! It's never been done, and for good reason!''

''What good reason is there for not giving an otherwise healthy man… or at least one who has every chance of becoming healthy once more; back the faculty he's lost to an injury that only … again, if my analysis is correct in this case, damaged one element of his optical … structure? If the actual explosion occurred far enough away from Torry's face, as the burns he took would indicate, that only his corneas were, however severely damaged; what reason could there be to keep from transferring, or transplanting as I think of the process, the otherwise healthy corneas of someone … recently deceased to Torry's eyes. If it didn't work, he would be no worse off than he is now, Jacques, would he? And wouldn't it be worth making the effort, if such procedures could restore the major part of … Major West's vision?'' ' Miguel asked, grinning widely at his friend's honest confusion and his own pun.

 ''And you believe they can?'' Jacques asked, but didn't wait for his answer. '' Miguel, no one denies you are a scientific prodigy, a medical genius. You

have a brilliant mind, _sans doute _What I am not certain of in this matter is whether, were he fully competent now, and still blind, Jim would accept the considerable risks involved. And so, how can I, or any of us decide that for him?  _Non,_ _non, c'est n' pas vrai!_ That is my own perhaps overstated caution, reacting. Jim West would agree to leap across the Atlantic, if it were presented to him as a means of protecting the President he loves and reveres, or as a new and interesting challenge!''

'' Well, that last would have been my best guess.'' Miguel nodded. ''But yes, I believe he would be, and has been quite reckless of his own safety and well being when it comes to your Mister Grant. No doubt you've remonstrated with him, more than once on that question.''

''De Mille fois!'' Jacques managed a chuckle, shaking his head. '' But you say you have research that may help you to bring about Jim's recovery. What kind of research have you done, _mon docteur d'ami_, that could pertain to such an unusual case?''  

'' Bring me back those files, and I'll be glad to show you, mon docteur d'ami. But will you not examine Torry's eyes, so we may have the beginnings of some hope in that regard, as well?'' Miguel asked.  ''Carefully, Jacques, he's waking up.''

'' Certainment.'' D'eglisier nodded and walked over to the sole cot in the room. Silent at first he studied the increasing restless, flickering motion of Torry's green eyes. It was mid afternoon, now, and a high window in the outer wall was sending in long shafts of life. ''Torry, Torry, mon enfant, its only your friend, Jacqu… Jac, and I wish to look at your eyes, _n moment_, for just a moment, alright?''

"'Mee-, Mee-Gell?'' Torry called out, turning onto his back, now, reaching up and out.

'' I'm right here, Torry. I'm right here beside our good friend, Jac. And I want you to do as Jac asks, now, Torry. He wants to help.''  Miguel answered and grasped the child's searching hands.

'' Jac?'' the child asked, a thousand questions with that one sound.

''Oui, Torry. I only wish to see how your little eyes are faring today. I believe they were hurting you, some time ago. They're not hurting you today, are they, Torry?''

''Nope. Them was veryiest owwied, long an' long… them ain't owwied nows.'' Torry said, shaking his head.

''That's well. Now, Torry, while I am looking at your eyes, what's most impor… what I most wish to know, is if anything I do today hurts you the least bit. Will you tell me, please, if anything I do now makes your eyes hurt?'' Jacques asked.

''Yeah.'' The child answered, yawning.

'_'Tres bien, mon si  brave.'' _ Jacques nodded. '' Now, mon enfant, I will help you to open your eyes very wide. With my hand on your forehead, now, Torry, go on and open your little eyes as wide as you can. And can you hold your head quite still?''

'' Mebbee so.'' Torry answered. '' Dis bein' a funniest kinda game, ain't it, Jac? Ain't it, Mee-Gell?''

'' _Oui, bien sur._ Very funny indeed, Torry.'' Jacques agreed, his own wide eyes intent on the child's.

'' It's a very odd grown-folks sort of game, Torry.'' Miguel reassured the child. '' We're almost done playing it, now.''

'' An den can play Torry kinda game?'' the child asked, grinning widely.

'' Yes, surely. Now, listen to Jac, Torry. Let's play this game first. '' Miguel told him.

'' Yeah. Did get mees eyes bigger 'nuff, Jac?''

'' _Precisement._ Yes, Torry, that was fine. And now, please close your eyes, and tell me at once, when I press my fingers on your eyelids, do your eyes hurt you?''

'' Nun-uh. Dat jus' feels funnier.'' Torry shook his head again.

''Tres bien, tres, tres bien, mon enfant. And now, open your eyes, Torry, and tell me if when I turn your head so, to this side, do your eyes hurt you, now?'' Jacques asked, gently turning the child's head towards the inner wall of the small room.

''Nun-uh.''

''Very well, we are nearly done. And you've done quite well.'' Jacques told the child. So far he'd seen nothing to indicate the sensitivity to light Miguel described, nor any other clear sign of possibly returning vision.  ''Now, Torry, when I turn your head towards my voice…''

Before Jacques could finish turning the child's face towards the light streaming in, Torry's face creased with pain, and his eyes shone with tears. And he pulled away, crying. ''Nun-uh! Dat stings! Dat hurts!''

'' I am very sorry, mon enfant. I am, truly.'' Jacques told the child. Torry sniffled and bit at his lower lip and then, surprised them by reaching towards the Canadien. Jacques exhaled in relief, and pulled him into a hug, ruffling his dark hair and rocking him. Over Torry's head, Jacques was looking at Miguel now, and saw something quite amazing. The small doctor's wide grey eyes were shining with unshed tears as well. He seemed to truly regret the consequences of proving his theory viable. And that alone was nothing like the man Jacques and his colleagues first met.

'' You were right, Miguel.'' Jacques told the older doctor. '' You were right. He senses bright light. And I don't know how that can be, after this length of time. But I don't know any other explanation. We had no hope he would see again. None.''

Torry seemed to have recovered from his hurt, he squirmed and wriggled in Jacques arms, until the younger doctor released his hold.  '_'Encore, j' regret, Torry_. Once more, I am sorry you were hurt by that … game.'' The Canadien told the child.

'' Mees okay nows, Jac. Mees okay, don' be saddy nows, okay?'' Torry asked, showing again his growing awareness of other's tones of voice and their mood. ''Dat mebbee was no such a funnier game, mees finks, but mees okay.''

''We don't think it was so much funnier, either, Torry.'' Miguel told the child. ''But it told us something very, very good. Do you want to know what?''

'' Wat izz, Mee-Gell? Wat izz, Jac?'' Torry asked, turning his head from one voice to the other, and grinning brightly as daylight.

''What hurt your eyes just then Torry was some light coming in from a window, way far up on that side of the room.'' Miguel explained. '' And that, Torry, that could mean the old, very bad hurt your eyes had, may be going away, now, very slowly. And that could mean some very good things, with time. And the best part is, Jac and I know that the fools who said you could not recover, you could not get well again, Torry, were very, and veryiest wrong.''


	15. Chapter 15

**Scene Fifteen**   Washington DC  1874

  ''In earnest? That little madman? He doesn't know the meaning of the word!'' Artemus Gordon growled, glaring at three of his five partners, Jeremy Pike, Frank Harper, and Jacques D'eglisier. ''Why d'you think I'm asking you to get Loveless out of there, forget about this devil's bargain, and send me in to look after Jim, covertly, so the damned administrators at that damned asylum won't toss me right out again!''

''And that we cannot do, not at this point, mon ami.'' Jacques insisted, trying to get Gordon to look him in the eye. The actor-agent had started pacing up and down the parlor car, now, so that was a wasted effort. ''Torry is already quite fond, and quite dependent on l' petit docteur.  On that basis alone, I cannot conscience risking we can't begin to know what harm by forcibly, much less permanently separating them, now. Non, mon ami, that I will not do, or allow.''

''Torry? There you go again, talking about 'Torry'! When are you going to stop that, I want to know and start talking about Jim West?'' Artie demanded, feeling again as if this unnerving, unexplicable change in the way everyone else talked about Jim West, would never go away, no matter how hard he wished.

''They're one and the same, Artie.'' Frank reiterated, sighing. '' We've only tried to get that through to you, about a thousand times, by now. They're one and the same person; Jim West was called Torry as a small child. And some of his cousins in Norfolk and down in Raleigh still call him by that 'family name.' That's just a Southern custom. Well, with all Jim's injuries, and such, we've learned that as far as he knows, Jim's become that little boy, again.

And we knew, and you know that Loveless is the expert at working with sick children. And Artie, my friend, you know as well as we do, that the sobs running that madhouse have pretty much barred the lot of us from setting foot it's doors! We made too much of a fuss, I guess, after you and Mac found Jim, there. So, until that little doctor arrived, there was no one to help our friend, Jim West, who has become a sick, terrified and stone-blind little boy!'' 

''Do you think I've somehow or other forgotten that Jim's blind, now?'' Artemus demanded, standing still and staring at them again. ''Do you think I've in some unfathomable fashion, forgotten he's terribly sick and hurt? Or is it just the three of you still think I let the man down so badly in the week right before the day he was injured that I've chosen to just forget about it? Well I haven't and I couldn't if I tried! He's my partner, damn it!''

'' No!'' Jeremy shouted, knowing Artie wanted each and all of them to lose their tempers and then somehow, just give in. ''No, no one here thinks anything like that, Artemus, unless it's you! And just how do you get singled out that way? What in the devil gives you a priori claim to all the damn guilt and remorse in the world over what happened to Jim? He's our partner, too, damn it, Artie!''

'' His partners, huh? Then answer my question, Jere, answer my question, Frank, or Jacques, how about you answering MY question? How by all that's holy could the three of you let yourselves be gulled by Miguelito Loveless this way? How on earth did he get you to make this devil's bargain? How could any of you, much less all of you let him pretend to be watching out for Jim in that wretched place? He hates Jim West! How many times have we all heard him say nothing less? He's tried and failed and tried and failed to simply destroy Jim how many times now? And now I'm supposed to believe that you believe that man isn't trying the same thing all over again, only this time with your blessing!''

''Not with their blessing. With the blessing if you really have to put it that way, of the only person here who could make that final decision, that person being me.'' Thomas Macquillan, said sternly. This was the team's leader, who'd been sitting to one side, watching their pointless, unchanging fighting start up again.. Standing up, 'Mac' strode over to Artie, who stood a good six inches taller, than the Bostonian's compact frame. Undaunted, Mac now furrowed his strong brow, let his chin jut out yet more, rubbed the back of his neck, where his greying light brown hair was closely cropped, and only then fixed his bright hazel gaze on Artie's face. And he simply kept it there, until the actor-agent backed down and sat down. 

'' Now, calm down, old friend, before you have another heart seizure. That Youngster you're so het up about, won't thank any of us, once he's well again, if we have to tell him you're gone.'' Mac finished and poured Artie a good quarter inch of brandy.

Taking the drink and knocking it back, as though it was cheap rye, Artie, closed his eyes and slumped in the chair he'd taken, before looking up again. ''And you're absolutely sure you made the right decision this time, old friend?'' he asked.

''I am. I would make the same one, today. We had a whole constellation of appalling problems on our hands, by the time we found Jim, and you know that. And you know what some of them were. And there are still some you don't know. And don't bother flying off the handle at them again, Artemus, neither do they.''

That statement brought Mac four astonished looks, and at least three gasps. The Bostonian, recently retired from the bench, but still working with these long time colleagues and friends, shook his head at them and sighed. ''Are you forgetting, all of you that Stephen West, Jim's father, was my good friend, and my classmate at Princeton?'' he asked. '' Well, he didn't and neither have I.  And when Stephen knew he was dying, after making certain his brother in law, Jimmy Randolph wouldn't contest his decision, he made me his executor, And he made damn sure I had Jim's power of attorney.

And I asked him, because years ago there was some trouble between Jim's father and his uncle Jimmy, if he was giving this responsibility to me because of that old trouble. And he said no, that he and Jimmy Randolph had become friends again, in the years since Jim's mother died, as they had been before Stephen and Anne were wed.  But he told me, and I am going to remember this for a long time, that despite my being a Boston-Irish-Damn Yankee to the core, he knew from talking to Jim himself, that I understood his son far better than his brother in law does or ever will. And to Stephen that meant I would be able to make the right choices for Jim, when and if there was need.  And when you and I, Artemus, old friend, found Jim West in that wretched asylum, I knew the time when I could make good my solemn word to his father was here.''

Artie sat up a bit and cast a remorseful look at the other three. Then he shrugged and shook his head. ''I'm scared silly for Jim. That's all.'' He told them, by way of apologizing.

''And we aren't?'' Jeremy asked, but with hardly any of his trademark cynicism, in his steel grey eyes. ''Artie, when you had to take that case in St. Joe, in the fortnight after you and Mac found our wandering, disappearing Youngster. Well, there's something you don't know I did, and for all I know, I made things just that much worse. So, I went charging into that damn asylum, like the cavalry! I said and did and tried everything I knew, to get Jim's release, then and there. And when it looked like the dimwits who run that hellhole might, just might cave, I raced back down to that horrid courtyard. I picked Jim up out of the corner he always sits in, and all but fireman-carried him out of there! And I succeeded! Sure!

I succeeded in frightening Jim into screaming hysteria. He fought me off, with what little strength he has, these days. He sobbed and kicked, shrieked and struggled till I had to set him down again, or drop him! And he didn't know me, or Frank who came in on my heels, or Jacques, who followed Frank, or Mac, who's known Jim longer than any of us. All he knew was it was a thousand times worse, a thousand times more frightening to him, to leave that place, than it was to stay there. And none of us begin to know any reason for that. And after that day and my grand hi-jinks, we had all we could do to keep from being barred from the complex! So then, and only then, we flipped a couple coins, and Mac and Jacques went to Loveless, instead of Frank and I.''

Artie stood up now, and laid one strong hand on Jeremy's shoulder, giving the older agent a wry half-smile. '' Guess you didn't hear what I did from Mac, then?''

'' Can't say as we have, no. Mac's the silent type, you know.'' Frank chuckled. ''Was it a good one, Artie?''

'' It was… a magnificent piece of sheer, unadulterated folly, my friends.'' Artie chuckled. '' The day after, the next day after Mac found Jim there; and I know he's been giving me a lot more credit for that then is due. I strode into the Administrator's office, I threw a stack of paperwork on his desk; and I told him he was about to be sued for everything he owned, for the wrongful imprisonment of a Federal agent! Oh, yes, you may not believe me, but I did that. And having done all that, I proceeded down to that same filthy courtyard.'' Artie told them all, his wide, dark eyes welling with anger and sorrow both.

'' And I spent the rest of that day there, trying to get Jim to admit just to me, just for an instant, even in a whisper, my friends, that he was faking this, that this was just his most elaborate ever practical joke! That he was … playacting this damned, impossible, imponderable, out of the question, ridiculous and totally un-JimWestian disappearing in plain view gag! Because, at first, hurt and sick as he was, that was what I, no, no, that wasn't what I believed, that was what I hoped for, that was what I wanted to believe. And Jim… well, as you say, he simply isn't there, so he couldn't comply with my demands.

And the reason I know Mac knows all about this, is; when I turned to leave, when I wrenched myself away from Jim in that damned corner, Thomas Kieran Macquillan was standing about two feet behind me, with the same damnably helpless look in his eyes still there today, and still in mine! And I don't know any little boys. And I … can't begin to understand how Jim could become one, again. I don't know the first thing about little boys, or, it would seem now, about my partner, either! And I just want my; I just want our partner, Jim West, back again, damn it! But I don't know where he is!'' Artemus shrugged again, feeling not a little childish himself, and rested his head against his upturned palm.

''Artemus, mon ami,'' Jacques now said, grasping the actor-agent's arm. '' We began this discussion with your asking for my judgment of the circumstances in which we find Jim, now. And I shall give it to you. The truth of the matter is, Jim, wherever he is concealed just now within a child named Torry, could be in any number of cleaner, kinder, less hazardous, less crowded hospitals; and be no less ill. As for Miguel de Cervantes, as I am told his true name is, he seems to wish nothing more than Jim's recovery, and an end to our old enmity. And, in the short time he has been at that asylum, Artemus, he has brought Jim, brought Torry, from a state almost… _catatonique_, in which state he'd been abandoned there, blind, broken and helpless, as one might abandon a broken wheelbarrow, nearly two years ago! _Est que ce tu n' comprends pas ceci?''  _

_'' Non, mon docteur-ami. Je comprends que meilleur que moi vouloir a! Et je le deteste! Et je ne peux combattre tout le toi, et celui qui blessé Jim ce beaucoup.'' _Artie answered, in Jacques' native tongue.

'_'Vraiment._'' Jacques gave his friend a half smile. '' But I would ask you one more question, mon ami. Do you believe, truly, l' petit docteur has so charmed me, as to believe his words, before the evidence of my own eyes? _Et sinon, est-il que tu m' accuser maintenant du mensonge a toi, pour quelque raison connu seulement a l' Bon Di-u?''_

'' Am I saying you're lying, Jacques? No! Never!'' Artie protested.

''Then believe me, mon ami, s'il t' plait! Jim's condition has improved.'' Jacques told him, softly but firmly pounding Artie's shoulder with one blunt fist for emphasis.   ''And only very slowly, so it seems to us, but not to Jim. How quickly have his circumstances changed, Mon ami?  I think of the condition we found him in, only four months ago; almost that of an infant, but far less active, far less receptive then is normal for that stage. He did not and would not speak, nor would he move_ une centimeter _from his corner. We have been speaking as well today, of what occurred with any attempt of ours to move him. And we have been speaking of why we sought l' petit docteur's aid in all this. Artemus, mon ami, do you still not understand?'' 

''No, Jacques, I understand. I just don't want to. But I saw Jim, that first day, when I followed Mac, following his latest hunch. And, Thomas, old friend, I know you remember. And we walked into that so-called main ward, in that corner of hell. And in the corner farthest from all the doors, all the windows, and all the chaos there, was someone I couldn't recognize, rail-thin, feverish, with scars everywhere, wheezing, with a racking cough besides, and alone, huddled into a shirt three sizes too big, and trousers two sizes too small, pressing himself against that corner wall, as if he wanted to hide inside it. And maybe he did want that. In that place, who wouldn't?

What's so insane about wanting to get as far as you can from that … bedlam. But Thomas marched through that courtyard as if at The Grand Review again. And he walked right over to that utterly silent, utterly dispirited figure. And somehow, maybe I was just in shock, Mac got me to keep quiet. And we sat there, noting every scar, every mark on his face and throat and hands. And after a few hundred years of us sitting there, a yard at most away from … Jim… He lifted his head from his arms. He snuffed the air around him like a puppy, and opened his eyes as wide as saucers.

And all because our friend Thomas here had the Damn Yankee New England foresight to bring a bag of peppermints along. And no sooner did one of those mints land between him, and us than he sniffed it, mouthed it and almost swallowed it whole! And the look on his face was exactly the look Jim West gets when he disproves one of my best theories. And then I recognized him, huddled there and nearly buried alive! And it scared the living daylights out of me, I can tell you! And I'm sorry, fellas. Of course you did … the only thing you could.''

''Artie, we don' t need your apologies. '' Frank argued. ''But we're damn glad to have your help, and any of those theories. G-d knows, I've used up all of mine. And G-d knows I don't like the fact that … Loveless or whatever he wants us to call him, now, knows one of my partners, at least one of my partners, better than I do! Did you know that Jim wasn't born at his grandmother's house outside Norfolk, but at Frederick, Maryland? I didn't', before my latest tête at tête with the small doctor. And I don't like the reasons that little man can help Jim, now, anymore than you do. But I want Jim West to have that help and any other help he needs. And I know we're agreed on that, aren't we? ''

''We are.'' The others chorused, including Artie, but then he pulled away again.

Now Jeremy Pike shook his head at the others and followed Artie to the side table where a row of gleaming brass holders kept a row of bottles from falling, when the train was in motion. The actor-agent sighed and poured them both a small amount of brandy. Then he turned and raised his glass and quoted ' Et tu, Brute?''

''Maybe, just maybe, old friend, if you don't start behaving.'' Jeremy answered, laughing, taking the glass and sipping at the warming, strengthening liquid. When it was gone, Pike turned and put one hand on each of Gordon's shoulders, and fixed the actor in his patented steely gaze.  ''And I have to say despite Jacques rosy optimism, there is a very easily understood reason why … de Cervantes agreed to help Jim West now. And he's as much as admitted it, too! He wants Jim well and sound and fully aware of whom his benefactor is in all this.

That is totally in character for the Loveless we all know and loathe, isn't it? I can see him, Artie, rubbing his hands together in glee, anticipating the time he can wring thanks out of James Torrance West! So I don't care if that's his motive, Artie, but I don't mind, either. Because for our friend the doctor to get what he says he wants out of this, James Torrance West has to be well and whole and sane again, now doesn't he? He wants to rub Jim's face in this, apparently more than he wanted to stay out at Las Miraboles, 'raising _peons_', as he put it to Mac and Jacques. And I think he wants to see Jim squirm under this revelation, more than anything in the world! So, he'll work himself past the edge of exhaustion, to make that happen. And I for one am perfectly contented he should do so! What about you?''

''What about me?'' Artie shrugged. '' Jere, if he were still sighted, and when, G-d willing, he gets well, I still don't think I could look Jim in the eye, ever again! And you know why I say that. You all know why!''

''Because Jim was in Baltimore, with you, for less than a fortnight, before … the disaster at the President's hotel?'' Jeremy nodded.

'' Yes, exactly because Jim was here, alive and tired and I only see the signs and signals of the trouble he must have been in, in perfect, 20-20 hindsight! He was edgy, he was frustrated as all get out, and mad as a wet hen over the failure of every single lead he'd been following for something over eight months time.  But he was sane, he was well, my friends, and he was … Jim. In fact, what should have sent off all the alarms in my head, in those ten or twelve days, was just how angry Jim was letting himself be. And he would get furious, absolutely furious, with the report he was trying to write out for the Man, with the rescheduling that kept going on, regarding his meeting with the President, and with me, every single time I tried to just get him to get some rest! I was being a mother hen, Jim said.

And that was the only thing that was really bothering him, then. He said. And when I suggested he ask the President to postpone that meeting, my friends, you would have thought I'd asked Jim West to turn over the keys to Fort Knox and both the San Francisco and Denver Mints! You would have thought I'd asked him to hand over command of every Army fort west of the Mississippi! In other words, he didn't exactly take to that idea, either. But I, damn it to hell! Only now it seems to me that I saw things were more than little off with Jim that week. But then, no, then I took everything Jim said back then at face value! So how incredibly blind does that make me?''

Jacques walked over now, a so did Frank and Mac, the parlour car was really too small for any private conversations. And Jeremy and Artie both knew that.

'' S'il tu plait, mon ami.'' The Canadien urged. '' Go on, this isn't something I have heard you speak of before now.''

'' I think Jacques has a point, old friend.'' Macquillan nodded. '' You might not like to talk about that time.  But right now we need, and Jim needs, every scrap of information, guesswork and recollection we can lay our hands on, Artie.''

'' Well, you're right. I don't like talking about it, so I suppose I haven't.'' Artie scowled, and finished his drink, and went on. '' And you all know how much l like to plague Jim about how stoic he can be, how impassive, what a great deadpan he can do, how he really must have been born up in Vermont, like you, Frank, instead of … well, Maryland or Virginia. And he … is… steadier, calmer, and much less demonstrative than … some people, me, for example.'

And in all the time I' ve known Jim, I've wondered, more than once, if he was just holding back, not allowing himself to be anything like demonstrative, to make me look all the more volatile.

 And there has only been one other time when I thought Jim West was about to … when I thought I was going to catch the impassive, implacable James T. West in an act of blatant, joyful astonishment. And I know Jim was this close to it… and then he just shut it off again, as it were a wine-tap. And even that took a really lousy charade on the part of some really nasty types! I told you about this, Mac, maybe I haven't mentioned to the rest of you… Jim looked up, from ducking the would-be pistolero I'd just yelled 'JIM! '' at the top of my lungs, to warn him about. He saw me at the top of those stairs, and he saw I was alive and well, instead of being dead and buried for a solid week! And I knew! I knew Jim West was about to either keel over in a dead faint, or he was about to yelp 'ARTIE!' like a keyed up schoolboy.

But no. Instead, I come down those stairs, look Jim right in the eye and he says: ' Thanks, Artie. Thanks.'' As if I'd just told him it wasn't going to rain!  'Back from the dead, like Lazarus,' I told him, 'I come back from the dead, like Lazarus and all you've got to say is 'Thanks, Artie.'? And Jim West looks at me with that deadpan I mentioned firmly back in place and he just says. 'Thanks, Artie.' Again. So, my friends, right about now, I'm thinking if Loveless can wring some real gratitude out of Jim West, … He'll deserve every drop!''

"Artemus, so long as we're talking about that one occasion; and Jim I do not believe would object." Jacques nodded. "Tu as raison, mon ami. Jim hardly knew what to say or feel. But he was delighted. He told me he literally couldn't believe his eyes."

"Sure, Jim would tell anyone that, anyone but me." Artie frowned, but not very convincingly.

"Only because he knows you place so much importance on such matters. Jim does as well, mon ami, but he has…_comment t'on dit?_ Not so forthcoming a temperament as yours. I would probably dispute him on this point, and I may yet, But Jim doesn't feel himself well able to voice his feelings."

"No, that much I know. The only other time I knew him to give the least sign of emotion, was when we went down to Norfolk, for his Grandfather Randolph's services. Jim was even quieter than usual, that whole week, but he was holding back tears, that much I could tell."

''Bien sur, Artemus, Bien sur. And during the time both of you were in Baltimore, before his meeting with M'sieur l' President, mon ami, you say Jim was extraordinarily angry?'' Jacques pressed him.

'' Yes, he was. And he wasn't sleeping, either. Yes, you heard me right. Jim West who always insists, with his West Point training, he can sleep, wake up, eat, march or ride at a moment's notice, anywhere, any time, under any and all conditions, was suffering from insomnia. He wouldn't tell me why for half that time. And finally, when I called him on it, Jim admitted he couldn't sleep at all, without having horrid dreams all of them from the War; about the Bloody Lane at Antietam, the fires in the Wilderness, and Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg.''

''And Jim said much the same thing to M'sieur l' Presidente, at their last meeting. '' Jacques exclaimed. '' It's there, right there, in the deposition M'sieur Grant gave at the time.  He said that Jim talked to him about two groups of former Confederates; one of which was involved in those killings, and in a conspiracy against the President, and the other, with no interest except to see a swift and legal end to Reconstruction. M'sieur l' President testified that Jim seemed to be obsessed with all the worst memories he had of the War.''

''And that only brings up something else I haven't told you fellows.'' Artie said, shaking his head. ''But in this case it's because I only just recalled it! When I was in the hospital that winter, and for a good while afterwards, I dreamt, over and over about Vicksburg, about Shiloh, about Chattanooga, Chickamauga and Franklin… and in every case, only the worst elements of those campaigns seemed to come up to me. Great G-d! Those sobs tried to plant the same seeds in my mind as they did in Jim's, I just got away from them, or they just threw me out of there sooner, is all!  And there's another thing Jim said that week. He said it must have been some other bunch of crazies who grabbed me and beat me up at the time, because nobody tried to slit my throat! But why in the devil would he say that?''

 '' To throw you off the track he thought you might be ready to follow him on, I'd guess.'' Mac suggested. '' Maybe the Youngster thought you were catching on more than you did, old friend. It seems pretty certain now that Jim only encountered one group of former Confederates last year, not two. None of our contacts, none of our snitches or Southern auxiliaries has heard anything about this supposed 'Society'.  That makes it a pretty good bet to be a cover for the real conspirators. And that makes our work that much easier. We don't have to be hunting for twice as many bad guys as there really are. And you, Artemus, old friend, are our best source of information on these real bad guys. Because for whatever reason you did get away from them with your life. So we need you to keep digging in that photographic memory, for any and every scrap you can find. ''

''And maybe, just maybe if we can trace down who you got away from Artie,'' Jeremy suggested, with a half smile. '' We can find out how they tampered with both of you. And that should tell us how to set things to rights, again. Gentlemen, I suggest we get back to work! How about it, Thomas? Frank? D' you two feel like taking in the sights of Baltimore? That seems like a good place to start, at least. ''

''That sounds like a fine idea, Jere.'' Frank Harper beamed, delighted to have a new lead.

''We'll keep in touch, old friend.'' Macquillan added. '' Therese, Charlotte, and Hildegarde are coming along with us.''

''Are they indeed? Harem robbers!'' Artie protested laughingly, as Harper gently removed those 'dear ladies', from the dovecot behind the mantelpiece. Laughing, some of their tension relieved, Mac, Frank and Jeremy left the Wanderer, to embark on another train, bound for Baltimore.

When they'd left, Artie went back to the decanters in their fixed containers by the window. Watching him, Jacques shook his head. The older man still seemed despondent, even angry.

'' Artemus, is there any cognac there, to fortify us for all this research, amongst l' petit docteur's files, cette soir? I have to take them with me to Baltimore, in the next few days, but for now …'' the Canadien asked, thumbing through the sheaves of documents he'd acquired from Antoinette de Cervantes.

'' Cognac? Mais oui, mais certainment, M'sieur l' Docteur!'' Artie replied, in a tone that surprised Jacques with its bitterness.

''My friend you are still troubled, non? Mais we have struck a true insight, non? Your memory of that time is returning and that can only help us, and you and Jim, as well, _j' crois.''_

'' Jacques, you are the optimist on this team, not me, you know that, right?'' Artie asked.

'_'Mais oui,_ and you are not the pessimist, mon ami, but the realist, _non_?''

'' _Vraiment._ So, you tell me, Mon docteur-ami-l'optimiste; aside from that natural tendency you have to see the glass as half-full, what is there to make you think Jim … will ever get well, again? Because frankly, I can't believe that, anymore. It's been nearly two years! No, since Jim went out on this case, Jacques, it's been more like two and a half years, now! And if I hadn't been so 'bunged up' then as Frank likes to put it… ''

'' Artemus, if we are now correct, if there was only one conspiracy, only one group of traitors and killers abducting Confederate veterans that year, then my reason for optimism is just what Thomas said, before leaving. . You are regaining your memory, mon ami, and the more you remember, the more we know what harm was done you, and Jim. As _un docteur,_ that is the only way, non, the best way to find the treatment for an uncommunicative patient, you must do all you can to find a patient more communicative, who has the same or similar ailments. Our adversaries in this case have done significant harm to both Jim and you, mon ami. But you I can ask questions of, whereas Torry has no understanding of what I would ask about at all.  And your answers will aid Torry, Jim West and you. You could not be more help to Jim under present circumstances, mon ami, unless you could put your hand out and point us directly to those enfants du prete, who abducted and harmed you both. _Si, encore, est ce que t' n' comprends pas ca?''_

'_'Enfants du prete?_ Sons of spring?'' Artie asked, ducking the question for now.

'' Sons of Lent, Mon ami… '' Jacques grinned, raising one eyebrow at his friend. '' If one were found to have been conceived during a season when devout persons are sworn to abstinence… the most likely conclusion to be drawn is that they were not born within the bonds of wedlock.''

_''Ah, l' voici!'' _Artie laughed, full out for the first time in days, if not weeks. '_'Les batards!''_

'' Bien sur, les batards. And, now, when we have looked through these files, Artemus, I would encourage you to rest. Otherwise you will be too weary when we go to Baltimore. ''

'' To Baltimore, why would I be going there, Jacques? I…'' Artie asked and then shook his head. '' No, no, my friend, you don't. You don't imagine I'm going to go pay a social call on l' petit docteur, do you?''

'' I wouldn't classify it quite that way, mon ami. Non, I would say you would be accompanying me to visit _un petit garcon, qui s'appelle Torry''_

''And why on G-d's green earth would you want me to do that?'' Artie demanded, frowning again.

''Because when you do, you will see far better than my words can tell, why I still have hope.'' Jacques told him, not backing down an inch. '' And of course, you need not even approach Torry if you wish…''

'' I need not!'' Artie exclaimed, whirling around from where he still stood by the decanters, to face the doctor. '' My G-d, Jacques! You make it sound as if I were afraid of a little boy or worse, afraid to see Jim!''

''But of course, you are not afraid of either of them.'' Jacques said. ''And so, of course you will accompany me to Baltimore, tomorrow afternoon, non?''

Suddenly, Artie felt ice sliding down his spine and he grabbed for the table, just to keep his feet as something even worse than being afraid of a child or a sick friend came to mind. His dark-bright eyes opened to twice their normal size and he went on staring at Jacques for a long silent moment, before tearing his gaze away.   ''Omi…OmiG-d!'' he exclaimed after a long silence. ''Oh my dear G-D!''

Jacques was at his side in the same instant, guiding the older agent back to his chair. Artie was breathing as hard now as if he'd run a footrace, and shaking his head. _''Etes-vous en douleur, mon ami?''_ Jacques demanded, falling back on his native language _''Est-ce qu' immediatement, Artemus. Vous me dit souffre la nausee, ou le vertige? Est-ce que ceci semble être comme votre saisie precedente de coeur?'' _

'_'Non, non.''_ Artie finally managed to answer, looking up at his friend. '' No, Jacques, it's not a heart-seizure. G-d! I almost wish it were! But I can't go to Baltimore with you, well, not to that damned asylum, anyhow! What were you just now saying about all the help I can give Jim by getting my memory back from that time? Well, mon docteur-ami, you were right, within some pretty exacting parameters, in fact, you were dead right!''

'' And you have now recalled something that leads you to believe you must not …'' Jacques started to ask, but Artie cut him off, sharply.

'' ''I thought it wasn't long enough! I WAS SURE THEY DIDN'T HOLD ME LONG ENOUGH! Those bastards, those sons of bitches, Jacques…''  Artie said, and as Jacques watched and listened, began to shiver as if caught in an ice storm. '

'Artemus, what is it? ARTEMUS!'' Jacques shouted, and only that brought the actor's dark gaze back to him, wide with shock and fear. 'Artemus, mon ami bien, n' t 'disquiets pas. You are not in the hands of our adversaries now. You are onboard the train with me and …''

''Jacques, they did the same damnable things to Jim that they did to me, and for months on end! '' Artie protested. '' I have now recalled more than I ever wished to know about those 'enfants du prete and what they're capable of, and what they intended! '' Artie told him, his dark eyes glinting with fury now.

 '' Jacques, I've had no memory at all of the time I was missing that winter. And you've said yourself, more than once that wasn't naturally occurring amnesia at all. You've told me several times that those sobs must have used drugs or hypnosis or both to keep me from remembering them at all. Well, I guess there was a time limit on their trickery after all. Because now I remember … Jacques, 'THEY DID, THEY PATTERNED ME AND I COULD HAVE DONE WHAT THEY … I remember that those bastards wanted me to kill Jim West!''

'' And if that is the case, mon ami, you must in fact, come with me to see Torry. You must, we must finally defeat these enfants du prete at their own game.'' Jacques insisted, giving the older agent not brandy, now, but a glass of tea, instead. 

''Have you lost your mind now?" Artie demanded, taking the glass and then ignoring it.  '' They … Jacques, whenever I tried to recall that time, all that came up was the rock-solid certainty that I wasn't in their bloody hands long enough to take any real harm. And I didn't. But I was there long enough for them to lay the groundwork for what was supposed to happen to Jim West, that day in Baltimore, the day he met with the President for the first time in eight months and more. Shall I tell you the whole megillah, or do you think you'd rather go on playing twenty questions?''

'' I want to know all that you've recollected, mon ami. Go on, s'il t' plait.'' Jacques answered.' What you can now recall will only be more of what we've sought to learn, more of what we need to know to help our jeune frere. Go on, Artie, go on and tell me what you are recollecting, _maintenant.''_

Jacques so rarely used Gordon's nickname that it caught and held the actor-agent's attention right away, as the doctor intended it should. Shaking his head to indicate he saw the trick of it, Artie answered. '' Isolation, complete and utter isolation; no sounds, no light, no warmth. I don't know, even now, how long I was in one of their …damn boxes. But I was in one… long enough to loose all track of time. And then they used drugs, different kinds of drugs, some that made me shake as if I was running a high fever, some that wouldn't let me move a muscle…And … maybe they beat me up once or twice before that last one.  And on top of that, hypnosis, Jacques, they patterned me, and then they made sure I couldn't recall it, or them… Right now, right now this minute, I still can't tell you who they were. ''

''And you need not be concerned for that, not just at the moment, mon ami. We will find their names and what has become of them before too long.'' Jacques reassured him.

 ''Jacques…listen to me, will you, this is … this might seem a minor point compared to all the rest, But if I could have taken, if I could still take Jim's place in all this, I would do it and in a heartbeat. But being unable to do that, now…makes me feel so damned useless, helpless…"

'' As we all have been feeling since this began. What more, Artemus? My friend, you're wrong, all of this is very important now. Every bit of information we can gather about them is one more weapon our enemies don't know we have. ''

'' I don't remember leaving Aynsley's house, or the ride I must have taken back up into Baltimore. But now I know, now I do remember, I was held by the same black-hearted bastards who left Jim alone and broken in that damned asylum, under a false name so we might never have found him at all!'' Artie sighed and then sat bolt upright, staring at nothing, nothing Jacques could see, at any rate.

"Artemus, Artie, que es que c'est? T' m' respond, mon ami, Artemus!" Jacques cried out.

_"helpless, he will be lying in the dust of the street, helpless, stunned and bewildered by the events swirling around …him, around you both, …He will be lying there, dying and look up…look up at you and …smile, again, and die, with' thanks, Artie, thanks, partner' for your coup de gras, as the last words on his lips. '' Artie_ was chanting, reciting, and completely oblivious to his companion._ ''He will die, at your hand, and you will tell the crowd that day, and on many more days to follow, how you put an end to the dishonored life and broken career of yet another mad assassin. And you will be praised, you will be honored, the government will cite you_ _for your service_

_…And you will know, for the rest of your life that you took the only course possible, the only course possible…The only way…because it was what he would have wanted, would have asked, would have pleaded with you to do, as his friend, as his very good friend and partner…to erase his guilt, his dishonor, his disgrace, and his shame …to spare, his family the horror of his trial for treason, the grief of his execution as an assassin…to spare him their tears and their humiliation Do you understand …do you understand you will shoot him down, you, Artemus Gordon, and he will thank you, as he dies, the assassin of Ulysses Grant, the assassin, James Torrance West.''  _

"Artemus," Jacques said in a softer tone, "Artemus, you are recalling something that never happened, a false memory, a false prediction, something that was patterned into your mind and memory…in Aynsley's surgery.  But it did not happen that way. It did not happen! So listen to me. We are not in Stephan Aynsley's home, nor in his laboratory, nor anywhere near it. We are on the train we have used as our headquarters for nine years or so. We are on the train, on a siding outside Baltimore's main railroad station. And this is not December,1871, non, but August, 1874 . Moreover, James did not kill M'sieur Grant, and neither did you kill James West. Come then, listen to me…Artemus…"

"What in the bloody hell  …Oh my dear G-d!" Artie whispered, hoarsely, as if he'd talking for hours. "I was set to kill Jim? I was patterned to … those bloody bastards set me up to murder my best friend in the world!"

"Mais, you did not do so, Artemus. Take this down, mon ami." Jacques reassured the older man, handing him a glass with some brandy in it. "You did not harm James at all, any more than he harmed the President, that day. What our enemies in all this wanted, never happened, it never happened at all."

"But it could have, Jacques, My G-d! I could have shot Jim down the same way those soldiers shot Booth." Artemus drank the liquor, and then put one strong hand up to his mouth now, as if to keep the words in.  "What did you do, just then? What were you doing? I wasn't just remembering that, I was there, I was back there…tied or strapped down and dizzy with lack of sleep and …''

'' Mon ami, I did nothing, _non, rien._ Your own tremendous strength and your great will to do anything you may to help Jim brought these memories, harsh as they are, frightening as they must be, back when we have such need … such great need to know all we can of our enemies methods. '' Jacques said, trying again to reassure the older agent.

''Jacques, I don't think you're hearing me. I don't think you understand what I … _Ecoute moi,_ _precisement,_ _mon docteur-ami,_ I COULD HAVE DONE WHAT THEY WANTED ANY TIME IN THE PAST TWO, TWO AND A HALF YEARS! I COULD HAVE KILLED JAMES WEST, JUST AS THOSE COWARDS, THOSE MONSTERS WANTED! '' Gordon shouted. '' Jacques, you can't, you and Mac and … if you have to call out the Navy, the Army and the Coast Guard… you can't LET me go back to see Jim again! You can't let me ANYWHERE near the man! YOU CAN'T! AND YOU HAVE TO PROMISE ME, YOU HAVE TO PROMISE ME right now, that you WON'T!''

''If I believed you could do as those enfants du Careme wished, Artemus. If I believed that for so much as un moment, rest assured I would prevent you having any access to our jeune frere_. Mais, c'est impossible._ Therefore, let's go on, mon ami. Tell me the rest of your _remembrances, s'il tu plait._'' 

'' Well, it's pretty simple, really. They didn't grab me off the streets that winter to turn me into their presidential assassin. No, that came before me with G-d alone knows how many other poor fellows. And that came after me, with Jim West. And what I remember now is that those conspirators were very interested in having all potential loose ends tied up neatly as you please, when all was said and done. Methodical types, you see.'' Artie sighed, and slumped again.

 ''So, on that day in Baltimore, I was down in the Maryland House lobby. I was reading and people watching and I kept watching the main staircase. And what they used their damnable patterning for in my case, was to wait there for Jim to come racing down those stairs. And then, if they had their way, I would follow him into the street, and … then… I was to shoot and kill my best friend in the world. I was to shoot Jim down like a mad dog in the street and probably collect a damnable Medal of Honor for doing just that!''

'' Bien sur, you were to eliminate their assassin for them, preventing the least chance we might have had, to learn what Jim knows of his abductors and their conspiracy. In that way, their secrecy would be preserved. But clearly, mon ami, that scenario was not the plan of all those conspirators. Artemus, ecoute moi.'' Jacques told him, leaning over to catch Gordon's eye.

'' We have eye-witness testimony to the bizarre fact that Jim somehow ran back through the President's suite, without falling, without even disarranging any of the furnishings. That suggests to me that Jim was somehow made to memorize that location. We have one deposition, from an assistant chef there, who believes Jim ran past him that day, down a staircase leading to the rear of the hotel. I can only conjecture, therefore that these methodical adversaries of ours, either had two plans for what would happen after their attempt on m'sieur Grant's life; or …''

'' Or the conspirators themselves disagreed, and disagreed substantially on what should happen once their plan was fulfilled!'' Artie exclaimed. '' Jacques that could just be the best news I've heard in months! If our latest batch of bad guys were already disagreeing, maybe even quarreling before their damnable plot was in motion, if they're already at each other's throats, G-d willing we just might be able to divide and conquer. Now, if only we could find those bastards, Jacques, believe me, I'd be first in line to draw and quarter them!''  Artie grinned ferociously at that image.

'' You might have some competitors in that regard.'' Jacques smiled tautly. '' There isn't one of us who wouldn't enjoy returning them grief for grief and harm for harm, mon ami. Now, Artemus, you will come with me to see young Torry, non?''

'' Jacques weren't you listening to me, a minute ago? Those sobs set me up to kill Jim West! So you can't, you simply cannot let me anywhere near him!''

'' And still I disagree. Shall I tell you in full my reasons, or would you prefer to interrogate me, mon ami?'' D'eglisier asked.

''You can tell me all the reasons in the world, mon docteur-ami, but first you've got to really try to listen to me!'' Artie hollered.

Now Jacques took his turn sighing, in a fine impersonation of Artie's world-weary best.  ''Just as you say, Artemus. '' he answered. '' You were given some rather strong post-hypnotic compulsions, mainly that you should kill Jim West, once he'd killed the President, non? What more have you remembered?''

'' It's more like what I've realized, Jacques. And I'm sorry for shouting at you, my friend. '' I've realized how I got so lucky that those monsters picked me, instead of you or Mac or Frank or Jere, or anyone else in the Service who knows Jim West to shoot him down, that day. They knew enough about Jim to somehow unearth his family name and use even that against him, we know that much now. And they knew enough about me to know I'm not against the principle or the act of mercy killing. But worse than that, they left me with no real memory of their damnable patterning, but definitely with the foundation for all the feelings I've been, for the most part, keeping to myself ever since Mac and I finally found our young Wanderer'. Are you sure you want to hear this?'' Artie asked, with a rueful glance at the Canadien.

'' I am sure you need to tell me, if only in my role as your surrogate for a father confessor.'' Jacques couldn't help jibing the older agent.

'' Oh, yeah, sure. You're only about ten or eleven years too young to be my 'Ghostly Father'! Not to mention ima Rochel and Bubbe Rifka and Zeyde Yakov, may their memories be for a blessing, would turn over in their graves at the idea of my going to confession!''

'' Ah, but how are they to know, _mon fils_? The seal of the confessional is after all meant to be eternal.'' Jacques chuckled, trying and failing to take on the serious mien and tone of a 'man of the Collar'.

'' And someone who's not here right now claims that I'm incorrigible?'' Artie tried and failed to scowl at the younger agent. ''All right, let's see if I can make sense of this, after all this time. At first, I thought I was just uncomfortable, I thought I just couldn't suspend my disbelief… for this.  I thought I was just … having a hard time seeing him, seeing Jim so …changed, as you said. But it's not and it wasn't!  Jacques, those monsters didn't leave their dirty mind tricks at trying to make me kill Jim, no, not those bastards!

They wanted me to disbelieve anything that took away from their image of Jim West as a wild-eyed, treasonous assassin, the image they planted in my head! They wanted me to object to anything that might help my best friend recover. They wanted me to suspect, to poke holes in, to try everything I knew to derail every effort made to help Jim, if he wasn't … already dead at my hands. And all of that, except for shooting Jim West like some rabid dog, is exactly what I did, exactly what I've been doing! What the devil kind of friend does that make me out to be, exactly?''

'' The kind that is capable of such immense compassion for all his friends that he could not, you could not continue to believe these lies and fabrications, mon ami. I would add you are the kind of friend who understands his own human frailty so well he can easily extend that understanding to those around him. Easily, Artemus, unless that same man has had his best, his highest attributes turned against him. And this, exactly this our adversaries did to you. And for that, if for no other reason, I will insist on stepping ahead of you in that line, mon ami, the one in which we wait to attack our attackers. And when he is well, I have no doubt Jim will wish to step ahead of me. And you are the kind of friend who would never, not when his own vast heart and fierce will are once in play, never turn away from a friend in need, not even if that friend currently resides within the mind of a five year old boy.''

''Jacques, I'm not proud of what I'm about to admit, truly, I'm not. But I am still having a whole lot of trouble with that particular concept.'' Artie admitted. '' Do you understand it? And if so, can you tell me how to?''

'' _Mais oui._ And do not as Jim would say, kick yourself, mon ami for having such difficulty.'' Jacques told him, sitting down again, across from Artie. ''There is a very slowly growing, complex, complicated… constellation of theories, studies, hypotheses, and concepts that go into what I believe we are seeing in _notre jeune frere,_ by which I mean Jim West, not his jeune frere, Torry. I believe what our adversaries achieved, and whether or not that was their purpose, we still do not know, was a genuine disassociation within Jim's mind. We have several eye witness reports for his manner and, his words and his actions on the day Jim met M'sieur Grant. All of those witnesses, especially the President, indicate that Jim was 'not at all himself'. And that may seem a common or even a glib statement, _mais_ I do not intend it thus.

Non, I believe there are at least three entities involved in this … drama; the man we know as our friend and partner, James Torrance West. He is, so far as we know, the starting point, if you will for the others. And those we have evidence of are our small Torry, who although he has some of the traits Thomas reports Jim having as a child, is far more fearful, and far more vulnerable; and the persona who went to the President, and while there either attempted suicide or feigned being suicidal as part of the plot to assassinate M'sieur Grant, that day. I have begun in my own thoughts to refer to that entity as the Courier, partly because he so described himself to M'sieur l' President. The main differences between the Courier and Jim West, from those reports and depositions, seem to be a younger affect, a far more serious mien, and a fairly rigid notion of his duty. It may be the Courier models himself on Jim as a Cadet at West Point, or as a subaltern to Generals McClellan, Burnside, Hooker, Meade and Grant. In any case, he is recognizably not the same person as our friend. ''

Artie listened and watched Jacques intently until the Canadien stopped talking. Jacques' ironic sense of humor and love for jokes and pranks was a match with Jim West's any day of the week, and the actor knew that. But surely the doctor, in the midst of such a serious, soul-bearing conversation would not use that wry humor to trip the older agent up, would he?

'' Alright, Jacques. You've got me going on this one.'' Artie reluctantly admitted. '' So, you'd better just tell me what's going on in that obviously cracked Quebecois gray matter of yours.  Because as Jim … used to say, I can't figure what you're talking about, not even a bit.'' Artie insisted.

'' Mon ami, if my gray matter is damaged, I would be the first to say I am not surprised in the least to find that out. I am quite certain it is at least well worn in some places. Not only that but you and Jim, as well as Thomas and Franklin and Jeremy, must bear at least some of the responsibility for it's present condition.''  Jacques nodded. ''  _Mais, attends moi, s'il tu plait, encore. _You have described your time in the hands of these monstrous persons, and I do not doubt, with great accuracy. Furthermore, anyone hearing your description would surely label it as various means of torture.

That being true in your case, and with the autopsies done on the men we found murdered as added evidence; my speculation is only strengthened that says Jim West was tortured by those same captors until his mind and spirit divided into … perhaps only three portions, perhaps more we are not yet familiar with on a conscious level. Mais, you know as well as I do that our jeune frere could be well described as mercurial in disposition. Thomas Macquillan who among us has known Jim longest has noted more than once that the taciturn Federal agent we were discussing earlier on, has always had a volatile nature. Until Jim is far more recovered, and able to answer certain questions; we cannot say with any certainty what led to that core element of his character.''

''However?'' Artie interjected when Jacques fell silent again, even pensive. '' Jacques there _was quite a substantial 'however'_ hanging off the end of what you were just saying.''

'' _Vraiment._ Artemus, my reading to date, including some research Miguel and Antoinette de Cervantes have done along this line of psychological development, indicates that such divisions of the spirit, and the self did not, in the cases noted, spring to life as it were, in the subject's adulthood. _Non,_ they begin in early childhood, and they begin with torment.''

D'eglisier answered, and when Artie looked again, the Canadien's wide eyes were dull with sorrow and no little anger. Before Artie could ask another question, the doctor held up one blunt hand and went on.  ''Therefore, if, as it seems, our enemies in this matter know Jim well enough to use his family name, to call him Torry; I must ask myself what more they knew of his childhood, and how they might come to know it. And I must ask myself how many more divisions that fine, brave young spirit has undergone, over time. And I do not at all care for the conclusions I am reaching.''

Artemus Gordon sat listening hard now, rapt and bewildered all at once, with one strong hand clenched and held against his mouth to keep from interrupting. He knew he was openly, frankly staring at the Canadien. He knew from Jacques' face and voice, the muted anger and the stark sorrow in them, this was neither humor nor wild conjecture. This was what the younger man believed to be the truth of an already confusing, convoluted matter. '' How many divisions?'' Artie echoed when Jacques remained silent. '' How many… starting in his early childhood? Jacques, wait… wait a second! I think you've got something there! How old was Jim…How old was Torry when Anne Randolph West died in a house fire?''

The Quebecois docteur furrowed his brow and finally nodded agreement. '' Torry had only just passed his fifth birthday, when that tragedy occurred, mon ami! And our Torry, now, has wavered between saying he is four and saying he is just now, five years old. Quelle betes! The worst event of that young life they also turned against him! _Artemus, mon ami, tu est un genie vrai! Mais, attendre un moment! Artemus, tu as rappelle un nom! Tu as dit que t' n' t' rappelle pas de partir de la maison d' Aynsley! Et celui qui elle était dans la verite que gauche Jim a commise comme Jim West du fait l' asile a employé le nom…''_

'' Herr Professor Doctor Stephan Johannes Aynsley!'' Artie finished, feeling as excited as Jacques looked. '' Whoever the bastard was who left Jim here under a false name, he claimed to be a doctor with a hopelessly insane patient, a doctor named Stephan Johannes Aynsley! That's the one, Jacques! That's their chief bastard! And he claimed to be from Amsterdam, on the papers he signed there. But he's not, mon ami, he's from Vienna!

 I remember him boasting about an appointment to Franz Josef's medical staff there!  So, how does a sick bastard like that from Vienna end up in Maryland? And how could he know so much about Jim West?''

'' That we must do more work to learn, my friend. Perhaps Miguel will have some notions on that question. But, I see your enthusiasm for this search has returned to some extent, non? You will accompany me tomorrow, then, to see young Torry?''

''On two conditions, mon docteur-ami.'' Artie agreed, with something almost like hope in his dark eyes, again.  '' First, you swear to me that you believe, you really think I'm free of Aynsley's patterning. You really believe I won't harm Jim or … Torry?''

' _Bon, encore, ecoute moi._ We now know for certain that some of our adversaries in this case intended you should kill Jim for them. And yet in all the time since you and Thomas found our young wanderer, you have not harmed so much as a hair on Jim's head, isn't that the truth of the matter?'' the Montreal native asked him, quirking one eyebrow, and studying Artie's face intently.

'' I haven't, no, not yet.'' Gordon admitted, not sure at all he could 'buy' this.

''Bien, and the opportunities you had to harm him were also there, months ago when you and Jim West were the only ones of us in Baltimore prior to the President's visit, non? In other words you've had many, many chances Artemus, to take Jim's life as our enemies wished, and you've not even managed to speak harshly to him. Clearly, you have abrogated your supposed, your intended mandate from those enfants du prete, est-ce que tu n' comprends pas, ceci?'' Jacques pretended to chide him.

'' On that basis alone, and much more besides, I know you could not harm Jim West under any circumstances, whatever. And that gives me great optimism, mon ami. Because that tells me our enemies have grossly miscalculated, in your case as well as his. They wished Jim to kill m'sieur Grant. We all know that is not even within the realm of possibility, for him. Therefore, as much as they harmed notre jeune frere, they still possess quite deficient knowledge of him. _Et aussi,_ they wished you to kill Jim, in what would undoubtedly been an act of mercy, at that point. And we all know, and we have now months of evidence to support the fact that you could not do that. Therefore, Artemus, mon ami, they were also gravely deficient in their knowledge and understanding of you. Thus we know they have made two rather vast errors in judgment.''

''And on that basis, at least we can hope they'll go on making these rather vast errors?'' Artie suggested.

'' On that basis, mon ami, we know the chances now are in our favor.'' Jacques nodded, grinning. '' The tide turns our way, now, Artemus. Of that I am more sure than ever.''

  '' Well, mon ami,'' Artie said, with a half-hearted grin of his own. ''All I can say to that is, as _ima_ used to say, 'from your lips to G-d's ears!'  ''

'' _Absolutement!_ And now, your second condition?''

'' Right. Jacques I want your solemn promise that unless I have your go-ahead; you'll stop me from just plain defenestrating that small doctor, the first time he provokes me. Because you know he will and you know I'll want to!''

'' _J' t' promis, mon ami._'' Jacques agreed with absolute solemnity.

''Alright… there's something more, my Ghostly Father.''

'_'Bien sur, mon fils, que-est que c'est?''_ Jacques laughed.

''Jacques, I keep thinking about what you said before. Before I suddenly got all these memories back. You were talking about the shock of seeing Jim, and finding he doesn't recall your friendship, or recognize your name, right now.'' Artie sighed. '' So my last question for now is:  Will he, Jacques, in all honesty, please, can Jim get well again?''

Now D'eglisier beamed at his friend. "Now I know you and Miguel are allies in this." he said

"Why, what do you mean?" Artie demanded, ready to get mad all over again.

"When he had done boasting, and assuring me of his skill, on one of our first meetings at that horrid place, Miguel asked me the same question, in much the same way."

"And so, what did you tell him?"

"This: That I have seen patients in like case, recover, fully. And I have. I told Miguel that what Jim and Torry and even the Courier, need most of all is kindness, patience, and someone to trust. And we can all give that and be that for our jeune frere, Non? For now, our friend is a small frightened child, with a perhaps only two, perhaps more similarly wary brothers. But he grows, Mon ami. He does grow."


	16. Chapter 16

**Scene Sixteen ** Baltimore, MD 1874

Death was a well-known factor in the wards of the overcrowded, understaffed asylum.  In the rainy, humid fall months, fevers of many kinds swept the wards like enfilading fire. And they always killed those too weak to fight both madness and fever. Artemus and Jacques went back to the asylum a dozen times that fall, and found both Miguel and Torry fever ridden, the dwarf sometimes nursing the child's fever, the child pathetically trying to care for his small friend.

Artie found himself watching the child/man even more closely on these visits. Artemus found, with Jacques' help that he was better and better able to deal with and talk to Torry/Jim. The child showed the actor an openly affectionate side that surprised and contented him. And he felt something between and ache and a respite when Torry for some reason began to call him ''temusPoppa.' This was, Artemus thought, just something to do with some resonance of Jim's former habit of plaguing his partner for acting like a mother hen.

 _I SHOULD have acted like a mother hen both of the last two times I saw you, James, before you went missing, before you got hurt. I should have acted exactly like a mother hen, partner, and SAT on you!_

_Sure, Artie, sure._' The imagined lucid, laughing Jim who sometimes showed up to plague his friend's thoughts. _You and what army? Wait, sometimes lately, I feel like you and some army DID sit on me. But you're not still that hacked off at me, are you? I DID un-disappear, after all_.

_Well, yes, and no, James. Frankly, you aren't entirely with the program again, quite yet.'_

_I …I …Yeah, get that… still don't have. Such a good handhold… all the time…it's …slippery, kind of. Like I'm climbin' or swimmin, or marchin in mud…and I never wanted to do that again after …the Mud March. And I can't … seem to keep awake… gotta hit Th' rack a lot… again… see you, Artemus, see you_…

_See you, Jim, see you. Soon, I hope_! Artemus replied as the figure vanished from his imaginings, again.

 The actor-agent still wasn't sure he believed there could be more than one mind or spirit within one person. But the question of one man with a multiply divided spirit inside him was something none of them could simply ignore, in Jim's or Torry's or Courier's case With each visit, with each new 'talkin' up', as Torry called it, all his friends and his doctors found more evidence of a grave internal shattering, in his earliest years. It wasn't only a reaction to recently suffered torture and terror. It was an element, or rather, quite a small number of elements, of alters, or, as Miguel preferred to call them,  'brothers' of the man they knew.

And oddly enough, as the team members began trying to grasp this notion, it seemed, to some of them, to be only a new way to look at a thirty four year old conundrum named James Torrance West. And as that concept grew among them, to the team's surprise, consternation and amazement, more and more of Jim's and Torry's and Courier's 'brothers' were making themselves consciously known.

They came either shyly or abruptly, slowly or vividly into 'view'. They 'appeared ' in the midst of conversations, when it seemed the topic either involved or interested them, or both. They seemed to emerge in response to laughter, sorrow or trouble, but only rarely to anger, quarreling or frustration. And in most cases, these 'brothers' made their presence known in moments of fear, anguish or jeopardy.  These 'brothers' also surprised the team with _their _differences. Not all were little boys, not all were adults like Jim, and not all were cast in quasi-military mode, like Courier, either. But all of them, with the exception of Jim West, who these brothers called 'Oldest' or 'Oldest Torry', were well aware of one another, with their varied purposes and roles. 

This new perspective, especially with what seemed the main figure 'missing', was difficult and perplexing. And at times it seemed academic to the physical dangers, and illnesses threatening both the child and the doctor. They were pressing on with all attempts at gaining legal recognition of West's false commitment. They were following every conceivable, possible lead regarding Stephan Aynsley. And a sketchy understanding of events two years past was starting to emerge out of their original quandary. But a feeling of being mired in these troubles sometimes caused all parties to stagger and stumble along their way.  

On their seventh visit, Gordon and D'eglisier found the child-self they knew best, who called himself 'Torry-Little', rushing up to them at the sound of their voices, frantically pulling on their sleeves, and their jackets, biting back sobs, building himself into a frenzy.  ''Mee-Gell's no here! Jac, 'temus-Poppa! Mee-Gelll's no here! Where'd he go? Where'd dem dokkers tookt hims? Whyn't Torry hears Mee-Gell? Whyn't Mee-Gell hearin Torry call hims? Dem dokkers tookt hims somewheres!  Dem dokkers mi' mebbee takt Mee-Gell somewheres bad and veryiest bad! Dem dokkers, mi' mebbee takt hims far a far a far! Dem dokkers mi' mebbee make owwys on hims! Dem dokkers mi' mebbee takt hims in dem little rooms back dere!  Where'd they tookt hims? Dem dokkers they don't be talkin up wif Torry-Little, Whyn't they tookt Torrys wif mees Mee-Gell?  Where's he? 'temus-Poppa, Jac, plees, can fynd Mee-Gell fas-fas plees! Pleese fynd hims!''

''Torry, it's alright, it's alright.'' Artemus caught the child close, feeling more than usually concerned for him. ''…Miguel's in the infirmary. Tommy and Jeremy, and Jacques, and some of our other friends, made these doctors set up a real infirmary now, to help the people here get well. And it's just upstairs from the wards.''-

''Artemus's right, mon enfant.'' Jacques said as soothingly as he could. ''We're here now, and we… _Torry-petit,_ listen to me now, _Ecoute moi, maintenant._ We came to help you both. And we do know…we know that Miguel is only up the stairs over against the window wall.''

 Now the child began to sob in earnest and Artemus felt more awkward. But Jacques remained calm, putting one of his own strong, square hands on each of Torry's shoulders. _''Torry-petit, n't'_ _disquiet pas, Mon enfant, Non._ What troubles you now? _Torry, dites moi, dites moi Maintenant. Qu' est que c'est?''_

" Dokters won'…Torry cain't go up th' stairs, Jacques." Torry-Little finally managed to say, between shuddering breaths. "An' an' Torry cain't hear Mee-Gell up ol' stairs. What if. .what if he ..calls Torry? What if …what if he's hurted, what if he …"

"We shall help our friend Miguel, if that is the case, Torry. And these doctors must, and they will allow Artemus and I to take you there, Torry. I know they will. But only if you can become calm. Can you do so, _Mon enfant_?"

Nearly voiceless from crying and panicked, Torry-Little finally managed to nod yes, in response, and whisper a reply. " be…wazz cahm, Jacques? ken be cahm… only don' know.. wazz izz?"

_" C'est tres simple, mon enfant. C'est vrai simple_…Torry, it is only a kind of waiting, and a kind of waiting for something good. Comprends tu ceci, mon enfant?"

" ken be waiting, Jacques, Yeah. mees ken be waiting gud." Torry-Little agreed, smiling wanly.

"Bon, _Ecoute moi,_ Listen to me, then. Miguel you know, is smaller than you, Torry, Non?"

"Y Yeah."

"And he has the fever, _une fevre serieus_, once more _comme ca_ …like that you caught, the last time we visited."

"Cos he tookt cares of m mees." Torry sobbed, full of a remorse that shocked Artemus wordless.

"Non, Torry, Non. Miguel has the fever because so many here have it. It can be easily caught, Non? So, Miguel being smaller can, be in some difficulty with such as this fever and must be where the doctors here work all the time. _Comprends tu, ca_ Torry?"

Taking in Jacques' slips into his native Quebecois French as naturally as he did Miguel's occasional outbursts in Spanish, Torry nodded. ''Up … up th' steps… in the "firm' ry?"

"Yes, Torry, So then, would you like to go there?"

" Can we go, Jacques? Can we go nows?" Torrys begged, almost smiling, he was so excited.

"We'll take the lift." Artie suggested. "I'll go and make sure it's clear for us."

"Can we ride up the "levator, Jacques? Can we "'temus?" Torry asked, smiling more and more.

"As soon as we can. I will obtain permission and come straight back for you. Sit here, Torry, and wait for me."

"Mees waitin' now, mees waitin gud, Jacques. " Torry agreed. Listening hard as D'eglisier took the few steps to the guard's station. There, Torry could hear his friend doing what the child/man called the grow up talking game the kind his grow up friends always did too quietly for him to hear their words.

"Artemus, why don't you go on ahead, and make sure Miguel is awake to talk with us. Si'l tu plait." Jacques suggested

"Certainment, mon ami." Artemus agreed, almost glad to leave off watching his friend in this state, and walked away, just as Jacques took Jim/Torry by the hand. He was upstairs walking in on Miguel, who remained the only patient in the infirmary, in a few minutes.  But Artemus felt as uncomfortable as ever around the doctor, who he'd only thought of as adversary, and he hardly cared if it showed. 

''You're looking better, doctor.'' He said. ''If you were really ill at all, that is.''

"I was, thank you. And your antagonism doesn't help our mutual friends, Mr. Gordon. I might add that your bitter tone of voice is likely to frighten the Torrys. Are they coming up?"

"Yes, by the lift. Jim…  can hardly wait. And my antagonism, as it was since we found James here, blinded, sick and …so badly hurt, is not with him, not with Jim at all. It's with the monsters that left him in this hellhole, in that state! And you'll forgive me, please if I don't believe you consider Jim West your friend. But he depends very much on you, now, Doctor. I suppose you intended that all along."

"Of course I did." Miguel replied, with a look that made Artemus think he was holding back a laugh. "How can I help the Torrys, or any other of my patients, if they can't trust me?"

"How can you, Doctor… Just how have you helped Jim since you got here? You say he's improved, Jacques says he's slowly recovering. But I see only that Jim has been here, and been just as ill for more than two years, now. And frankly, when I look at him, when I listen to him all I see is a man I've known for eleven years, blinded and sicker than he's ever been before. And all I hear is terrified, and nearly helpless little boy!"

"Then, Mr. Gordon, you are more blind than the Torrys. But I am willing to give them far more leeway on that. And I am willing to concede that they are not in their right minds, just at present, which it seems to be something you cannot accept. Why is that, exactly, Mr. Gordon?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Artemus insisted. "In fact I've hardly understood any part of your wild and still wilder theories …And even if Mac and Jacques and Jere Pike lend credence to them… I don't … well, I just don't, is all.''

''Obviously. And of course it doesn't help a bit that you trust me as far as I could throw this entire complex. ''

'' Well, I don't. Why should I bother denying it?''

''You shouldn't. I don't ask you to, with the caveat that showing such distrust while the Torrys are in the same room can only serve to confuse and worry the children. And I know you'd never wish to do that, would you?"'

Artie rolled his eyes upwards at this challenging remark. ''I've never harmed a child in my entire life, doctor, unless you count the other, bigger, nastier children I knocked on their keesters out in the City, whenever they had the gall to talk about my family. But I hated that way of settling differences and I stopped using it when I was eleven. And what I just can't understand now is this notion that a healthy, intelligent, educated, resourceful grown man can turn into … a child, much less more than one child… if that's what I'm supposed to believe, now…as you've said, more than once, just like THAT. Frankly, it makes no sense to me, no sense at all.''

''Then you haven't been listening to me or to Thomas or Jeremy, or Jacques while we discussed it OR while we tried numerous times since I arrived here to explain it to you. But I'd be glad to try once more, Mr. Gordon, if you would be so kind as ask Jacques to bring the Torrys here for a moment and then wait with them in the next room, We've been working to set it up as a place where they and some of the more vulnerable patients can rest and play.''

''Sure. I'll do that and I'll be right back, to listen one more time, out of deference to my colleagues, doctor.'' Artie nodded and turned to leave.

''Surely.'' Miguel said and Artemus was certain the doctor was hiding a grin at his discomfort.

'Mee-Gell?'' Torry-Little called out from the infirmary's main doorway, moments later. ''Mee-Gell? Izz you still in 'th' firm'ry up here? Did dem dokters make you more sicker now?''

''I'm right here, Torry-Little. I'm right here'' Miguel called out, smiling. ''And I'm almost well now, not sick. Come straight across, Torry, it's just like the ward downstairs, only smaller.''

Torry shuffled happily across the room, reaching out to find and embrace the doctor. 'Mee-Gell, mees camed up to fynd you! Mees camed all Th' ways wif Jac in th' elvater … all Th' ways, dem dokkers no stopped mees … no stopped mees wif Jac and 'temus Poppa! ''

'' And isn't th' elvater, awfully noisy? Torry, that's very good. Because that means they won't stop you from coming back as often as you want while I'm getting better.''

''You do get better nows, yes, Miguel?''

''I am, I've hardly any chills or fever at all, now.''

''Mees look.'' Torry said solemnly, and reached to lay one hand flat against Miguel's forehead. He showed no reaction to the physical fact that his hand covered half Miguel's face. Miguel smiled at the childish gesture but waited.

"You still got some of feffer, Mi guel!" Torry chided solemnly sitting down beside his friend. " So you gots stay here in the firm'ry. So, Torrys will catch some more feffer, and stay up here, too."

Chuckling happily, Torry grinned at his plan and cocked his head waiting for Miguel to agree. 'That chuckle, grin and patient, cheerful tilt of his head was so familiar that Artemus almost growled. He wanted to either cry or roar with anger, because Jim's smiling, bright green eyes were still restlessly unfocused, blank and blind. Artemus had listened now, more than once to Miguel's plans for an operation on those scarred eyes.  But as of today, looking at Jim, Artemus couldn't believe his friend would ever see him, or anyone, or ever see at all, again.

'' Well, no, no, Torry that's… That wouldn't let you find the surprise, the surprise that Jacques and Quiet Tommy and Jeremy, and a lot of our other friends have been making for you and some of the others … Torry who are not yet well here.''

'' 'Prise?'' Torry grinned. ''Wat izz? Wat izz, Miguel?''

'' Shall I show it to you now, Torry?'' Jacques asked, taking from Miguel's smile and Artemus's frown that the two hadn't finished another of their 'talks'.

''Plees, can?''

''Yes, Torry, go on with Jacques and then come back here and visit me, if I don't come over there to visit you.'' Miguel agreed. '

''Wees will!'' Torry crowed and was following Jacques out the door again in the next instant.

''Thomas and some other friends of ours have been quite busy, setting up the room just a bit further down the hall, for Torry and the other, more at risk patients. I believe Thomas brought a great many toys he'd made himself. It should be quite diverting for the Torrys and the other similarly vulnerable patients here.''

'' Diverting? Diverting?'' Artemus repeated. '' Are you insane? It sounds like you meant to say distracting, doctor, distracting Jim and the rest of us from the real need he has which is to get him the hell out of this damnable place! ''

''First of all, I am not insane, Gordon, not by any standards I would accept. And you, for some reason I can't quite discern believe I wish Torry to remain in this damnable place? Why is that, Mr. Gordon? Why should I wish any of the Torrys, or myself or anyone for that matter to remain in this corner of hell?''

''I have NO idea. Why don't you explain it to me, along with your inexplicable agreement with Mac and Jacques, to come here to begin with? In fact, why haven't you ever explained why you came here? Why would you make this devil's bargain with my partners? What reason could you possibly have for crossing the country to supposedly come to the aid of a man who put you in prison, more than once?

''Well, to answer the last question first, At the time your friend was taking me to the prison outside Sacramento, my cher femme was _enceinte_, _vous comprenez ceci,_ expecting? And she had the misfortune to end up in the Sacramento River, without a life jacket or any other means of protection, and without the ability to swim… And Torry… Major West as I knew him at the time, saved her life and the life of the child she carried at the time, our son, Micah Santo Iago de Cervantes y Marais, who is now a healthy, thriving three and a half year old.''

''Tor… Jim wouldn't just stand by and let a woman drown, for G-d's sake!'' Artie exclaimed.

''Apparently not. For which Antoinette and I are duly grateful.'' Miguel told him.

''So you feel a debt of gratitude to James, is that all there is to it?''

'' To a greater or lesser extent, yes.''

'' And just what makes up that lesser extent?''

'' My own blatant, unconquerable curiosity, I'm afraid.'' Miguel answered, smiling at himself now.

'' Excuse me?''

''Yes, curiosity. I was extremely curious to make the better acquaintance of a man who while insisting we were in a two-man war, saved both my wife and our unborn son. He surely could have guessed I would have been far more easily dealt with in the midst of grieving their loss. Those two things just didn't fit together. So I was curious to find out how they could do so in the psyche of James West. And so I've begun to do, here.''

''Oh, right. You were going to try your theories on me one more time.''

''Yes, yes I was, and you were … supposedly going to listen. Out of deference to your … partners. But apparently you've already changed your mind. You've already set your mind in opposition to anything I may say or do that could even POSSIBLY persuade you otherwise. Haven't you, Gordon?''

'' That's an awfully old, and always convenient dodge, Doctor.'' Artemus sneered. ''You offer an explanation you don't really have and then withdraw the offer saying I won't listen.''

''You won't accept it, whether you listen or not, is what I said.''

''Try me.'' Artemus snarled, getting angrier by the minute. ''No, never mind, never mind. You're right, I wouldn't believe you if you said the sun is going to set this evening and rise again in the morning! I don't even know why I bother talking to you, or asking you ANYTHING.  You'd only start in on a lot of pseudo-scientific jargon and gobbledygook that you think I couldn't follow. Well, Doctor, I've been in that line of work, where I grew up

we call it grifting, since I was about … nine and a half. So shell games and other such devious tricks pretty much don't work on me!''

''Shell games?'' Miguel frowned. '' I'm afraid I'm the one who doesn't understand the terminology you're employing, Mr. Gordon. And your anger rather confuses me, too. I thought Jacques told me you'd come to some understanding of what we're all trying to do here… for your best friend.''

''No, no, I haven't the least understanding of what you're trying to do here, And frankly, the more often someone tries to explain it to me, the less I find myself understanding. My ONLY concern is Jim's health and well-being. MY only concern is with getting Jim West the hell out of this corner of hell. But I already said that, so I'd have to guess you're the one who's not listening here. That being the case, my being here seems more than a little pointless, doesn't it?'' Artie asked, and turned to leave. But before Miguel could respond at all, he turned back, glaring and shouting  ''Wait! You wait just a damn minute!'''

''Surely, what is it you wish me to wait for?'' Miguel asked the actor. Then the small doctor sat quietly, wishing he could get through to Gordon as he had to Jacques and Macquillan and a few of the other agents that their old feuding days were officially over, as far as Miguel de Cervantes otherwise known as Miguelito Loveless, was concerned.

''You WANT me to blow my stack and storm out of here. You're perfectly willing to have fewer of Jim's friends around while you do whatever the hell you're doing. And you're even more willing to have me out of your hair, since as we already agreed it's no secret at all that I DON'T TRUST YOU.'' Artie suggested, and then shook his head, still furious, and beginning to wish he hadn't made Jacques promise to keep him from trying Loveless out as a quasi-guided missile! But I'm staying right here. And here's why: Somebody has to play devil's advocate in all this. Someone has to allow for the possibility that you're not here out of gratitude or altruism or any of your other fine sounding claptrap. So I'm stepping into that role, as of right now.''

'But surely there are numerous other agents of your lugubriously overweening and outsized Federalist government who could baby sit Torry here while you look for other villains, including those who dumped Torry here.'' Miguel laughed. ''And surely a man of your …talents your …skills might be needed elsewhere …at some point. And the officials here are quite unlikely to allow you or any of your partners to take up residence here, Mr. Gordon, on the grounds that they know you wish to remove Torry by any means necessary, that they have hired guards themselves and that you are, so far as they can tell, at least, quite sane.''

''I am as sane as the day is long, Doctor. No one's questioning MY sanity here. I'm questioning yours and you're continually questioning James's. And as to the former, perhaps you are sane under your own terms. But as to the latter, surely you can see where establishing Jim's sanity, instead of debating it, would be a huge step forward in getting him OUT of here, to somewhere he can get well again.''

''An  interesting argument, Mr. Gordon. But tell me this, was it the act of a sane James West to attempt suicide so publicly, and in the presence of his much-admired President? Was it the act of a sane James West to … if I understand Thomas' more recent suggestion, to attempt suicide and assassination in one act, directed by Torry's abductors against Mr. Grant?  Was it even the act of a sane James West to ignore the advice I understand you gave that he should allow you to make his report to the President that day? Jacques tells me that West, according to your own debriefing at the time of his injury, was suffering severe exhaustion, disregarding long standing habits, displaying aberrant patterns of speech, and yet more out of the ordinary reactions to you on his return from an eight month's mostly unexplained absence.''

Artie had turned his back on the small doctor, while trying to regain something like a calm temper. But now, he whirled around again, eyes wide, mouth working with new fury. '' Are you trying to imply something, Doctor?'' Artemus asked. '' Because if so, I'd truly prefer you just say it outright! You think I'm to blame for Jim being so badly injured! You think I didn't try hard enough to keep him from seeing President Grant that day! Well, guess what, Doctor? On those points for maybe the first and last time ever, Doctor Loveless, you and I absolutely agree!'' 

'' No, no, we don't.'' Miguel quietly contradicted the agent, slowly walking towards Gordon. The actor was standing in the middle of the infirmary, breathing harshly and looking somehow, deflated, his strong shoulders curving inward, his dark head down. Miguel now took Artie's left hand and led him to one of the most substantive cots in the room, and somehow with gestures and quiet speech, got Gordon to sit down, again.

''Come, come over here, Artemus, and sit down, and take some deeper breaths, if you please. Neither Torry, nor James West will thank any of us if you suffer an apoplexy. He cares very greatly about you, you know. Thomas Macquillan is very much another father figure, yes; and Jacques does truly fine work as a surrogate mother, when and as needed.  Messrs. Harper and Pike are adequate stand-ins, and of course they have deep fondness for your mutual partner. But none of them, and they all know it, have quite your place in that young man's affection. Surely by this time, with you coming more often to visit, you've noted that you alone, out of all his care-takers receive the honorific 'Poppa'.''

'' I'm tallish and heavy set. And Jim's father had dark hair, when Jim was young.'' Artie said, shrugging tiredly, and then surprised himself by accepting the cup of water Miguel poured from a pitcher next to his cot. ''What doesn't cheer me very much about the slight resemblance I may have to … Torry's 'Poppa', is what I only recalled myself, a few weeks ago. To a much greater extent I look like … Aynsley, the man who tortured Jim so horribly. I look like the tormentor he doesn't remember. And when Jim gets that memory back… '' Artie drank from the cup as if it held bourbon, slowly and gratefully. Then he glanced ruefully over at the doctor. ''If Jim gets that memory back… You can put paid to whatever place I may hold in my best friend's 'affections'. I'd just about guarantee you. My G-d! How utterly selfish can I manage to be!''

At this clearly discernible crossroads, Miguel forbore to lay one small hand on Gordon's large ones, still clenched around the tin cup. Instead, the small doctor went back to his old practice of silently studying people who were or were not his patients. Gordon was, he knew, eleven years West's senior, closer in age to Miguel, in fact. He was also a powerfully built, well-balanced figure of a man, broad-shouldered, with a strong torso, no doubt demanded by his theatrical career. His dark, thick, coarse hair showed remarkably little greying, and Miguel wondered if in this small way Artemus was vain. His molded features some would call florid, But they had their own strength, and, what was more the gift of the mind behind them, to express any and every nuance at his command. And his dark eyes were, although well shuttered, just now, even more self-expressive. His color was too high, just now, for the doctor's liking. It made the actor's naturally olive complexion look ruddy, which it certainly was not.

 Miguel also knew Gordon had suffered two heart 'seizures', episodes of acute angina, and on one of those occassions, had come close to death. The rest of the team Thomas Macquillan lead all showed their concern for the actor in differing ways, as suited the differing people they were, who happened to have more than one 'common cause'. Jacques simply and bluntly upbraided the actor whenever he felt it was needed, sometimes reverting to his more expressive native language to do so. Jeremy more tended to 'plague' his colleague until the actor 'gave'. New Hampshire born Frank Harper seemed to have mastered a nearly wordless technique, by which one long look was enough to carry his meaning. And 'Mac' Macquillan was truly talented at glowering and then offering a few choice sentiments to back up that hard-edged affect. The one team member who wasn't relating to 'Artie' as 'Artie' these days, James Torrance West , in past observations seemed to borrow from each of their team-mates to show his concern.

''So, once again we're not in agreement, is that right, Doctor?'' Artie asked, knowing he was being observed, noted down and catalogued once more, by the huge intellect behind those wide grey eyes.

'' Quite right, Mr. Gordon. By the point in time that our adversaries, as Jacques likes to call them, sent Major West to meet first you and then Grant, there is very little likelihood that anyone or anything could have prevented the following events. That being the case, you are mostly giving your blood vessels a rather harsh working by taking so much blame that is not yours, on yourself.'' Miguel nodded.

'' Well, I must say, I can't think that I ever imagined a time when you'd be, even figuratively, letting me off the hook.'' Artie shook his head. ''And I will go so far as to say this; you may be right in saying I don't help … anyone here by losing my temper. I'll … try not to.''

''And, I'll try not to provoke.'' Miguel chuckled. ''I daresay, that won't be an easy task for either of us. But, if you have serious questions to ask about Torry's disassociation, I believe I can help you with that. What else did you want to ask me, before our small friend and his brothers come back?''

''His brothers?'' Artie repeated. '' You see, that's it, that's the crux of my problem, 'his brothers'… As hard as I've listened to Jacques and to Mac, to Jere and Mac's nephew Rob who's made quite a study of psychological matters, himself, and I have; I can't get this idea of … this business of brothers who live in … Jim's mind or his … imagination, or wherever… I can't get it to make any sense, not any sense to me, at all. But now, I suppose you're going to tell me it makes all the sense in the world?''

''No, I'm going to tell you that in some ways it makes absolutely no sense to me, to Jacques or anyone else I know who's seen such cases.'' Miguel answered.

'' Careful, Doctor. You're right on the periphery of agreeing with I just said.'' Artie somewhat wearily joked.

'' That's true. I must be more cautious in future'' Miguel chuckled.

''Good idea.''

'' Perhaps… Now, if I may return to the subject. Perhaps the difference in our perspective is only that my reading and research tells me that the root cause of all these disasociative cases is what truly makes no sense to me. They begin with a person or persons who egregiously abuses very young, and therefore defenseless children. The disasociative child's mind escapes that torment, by in a sense, setting these other selves, like a living earthworks, between itself and the abuser. And in that escape, one of two phenomena is most often found to happen. Either that earliest self burrows so deeply inward as to never be seen again, or the alternate selves so painstakingly shield their first-born sibling that he or she has no conscious awareness or memory of them, or the underlying abuse. And my estimation is that in James West's case, the latter rather than the former obtains.

''All right, all right. If … and again I have to say, if I buy this… it seems to me that Jim has no idea whatever of … '' Artie stopped again, sighing. '' I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on trying to understand how anyone could hurt a child so badly. And further back, still, on why this

has only come up, as far as Jim West's concerned, now, when he's a grown man?''

''Well for the former, Gordon, I have no answer. All the abuses children suffer in our so-called modern, enlightened, socially progressive age, are quite beyond my capacity to comprehend. And frankly, I have quite a large capacity! As to the latter, though I am more and more convinced we have our

 non-friend, as you so rightly call him, this Doctor Aynsley to thank for the revelation of Torry's brothers. I believe he made their active presence almost compulsory, if their mutual survival was to be protected. And he may not understand this even as little as we do. He may delude himself that he caused the small Torrys and the one Jacques calls Courier to exist, that he is their Author. But, in my research and my observation, nothing could be further from the truth. Such fully evolved, damaged but still multiply functional entities do not spring up in a matter of a mere eight months time, Gordon! That would be patently impossible.''

'' And how exactly does understanding all this; and I'm not about to say I do understand it, help Jim… or … Torry now, Doctor?''  Artie asked, standing up again and starting to consider pacing.

'' I'm not sure, yet.'' Miguel answered him bluntly. ''But it certainly helps me to understand my patients. And in this case… I mean all my patients. And in my years of practice, it's never hurt to gain more understanding of one's patients. In fact, it's usually benefited them, and my patients and me further along the way, as well. Don't you think that knowing the most likely cause of Major' West's rather volatile nature makes you a better friend and colleague to him? Let me offer you an example: Mr. Gordon, you and I, just in the past many weeks that you've come to visit Torry, have wrangled again and yet again over what his disasociative condition means as regards his possession or lack of sanity. Have we not?''

''Ad infinitum.'' Artie nodded.

''And yet, by applying even our minimal knowledge about this condition as it stands in the studies, the practice and the research at this moment, we can confidently state that it was not in fact James Torrance West who entered a meeting two years ago, with the intent to assassinate your Mr. Grant. That person, that alternate self was Courier, I'm certain. From what I've seen of the reports generated after the fact, though, I must conclude that at some point during that meeting, James West did in fact re-emerge, thus preventing not one but two attempts on your President's life. Legally therefore, West has no culpability whatever in that instance. He wasn't present. That, by itself, I would think, even with the lugubrious apparatus of Federal and military justice, would go a long way in keeping Major West from facing a courts martial. E! Voila! One less bothersome set of legalities to … bother about. ''

''You've obviously never dealt with government or military beaureaucracies.'' Artie answered, glumly, shrugging. '' Or the men who make their careers within them. Jim falls under that latter heading, Doctor. And so, if G-d willing, Jim West is ever well enough to understand what happened to him, Doctor; he's very likely to be first in line to demand that courts martial! And that's simply part of his sometimes over-worked sense of responsibility. Which Jacques seems to think stems in part from Jim's being a helpless little boy, unable to do anything about it, the night a house fire took his mother's life. He is… He was always trying to … make up for that, I guess.''

Miguel had turned to put the cup back on the chair beside his cot. Now he turned about with surprising agility and stared at the agent. ''Gordon! Mr. Gordon, what did you just say?''                                                  

'' I said, Jim's been trying to make up…'' Artie reiterated, puzzled.

'' No, before that!  About his mother's death? Gordon, what did you say just then, about the cause of Anne West's death?''

'' A hurricane lamp, apparently, got pushed too close to a vent, overheated and exploded one night, in a garret, on the top floor of Jim's grandmother's home.  And Anne West's room, that is the room she sewed and read in, was just under that garret. Somehow or other, his mother fell asleep in that room, instead being down the corridor or downstairs or… anywhere farther from the fire. '' Artemus nodded, sighing.

 '' Mac's actually the one who told me about the fire, and described the circumstances to me. He said that sewing room was right above the foyer, on a sort of landing. And it had been Anne West's own room, as a girl. And the fire spread slowly, at first, going unnoticed. So that by the time the others in the house that night knew of it, the stairs down to the foyer burned and fell. And after that, there simply was no way they could reach Jim's mother.''

''And so Jessamyn Anne Randolph West died.'' Miguel murmured, nodding. '' In a fire. When Torry was no more than a fortnight past his fifth birthday. And now, all these years later, when Anne West's son has his worst nightmares, they are always about a fire. The nightmares that frighten Torry and his youngest brothers most of all are always dreams about terrible, ravening fires. And you, Mr. Gordon have dropped the last, I hope, missing piece into that particular puzzle. From what you tell me, Torry's worst nightmares all, after all this time, are still about that fire!''

''This was something you didn't know about Jim, doctor?'' Artie couldn't keep from asking the small doctor.

'' I knew his mother died when she and Torry were both quite young. I knew he was the only one of her three children with Stephen West who thrived and grew. But no, I hadn't heard the story in such detail before now. And somehow it truly doesn't surprise me, that our normally taciturn Major West, who has one way and another been my major resource on himself, would be even more so, as regards that night. That event, that unforeseen, violent separation from his mother incontrovertibly set the framework for his life. And somehow, our adversities in this present instance, in the case of Torry's abduction and torture, knew all about this foundation, this root cause for so many of Torry's views and traits and life decisions. But how could they?''

'' Doctor, that's exactly what I asked Jacques when we talked about this, some weeks back. And neither one of us had the answer, we still don't. And guesswork doesn't seem all that useful, when we have so little to guess with. Aynsley disappeared, at just about the same time Jim did. He could be in Vienna, or anywhere, by now. Then there's the girl who tried to shoot the President, she called herself Liesl Marguerite Branoch, from Atlanta. But that's all we know about her. She died within hours of that damned explosion, and never said one more coherent word. And they are the only people we know for certain were part of that conspiracy.'' Artie sighed again, feeling hopeless.

'' They were not the only ones, actually.'' Miguel corrected him. ''There's Courier, and to a greater or lesser extent because of age, there's Torry. And, with time and patience, I expect we will have a re-emergent Major West. All of those three persons and their brothers have to a greater or lesser degree their memories of this Aynsley's words and actions during their encounter. And aside from those entities, Mr. Gordon, we have you. What you've recalled to date has been quite helpful, I believe to your investigation. For example, you've supplied the name of that self-styled scientist and physician, Aynsley. Surely that has proved a useful jumping off point. Surely you don't believe at this juncture, you've contributed nothing to

the case. If so, once more, I don't agree. ''

'' Not very surprising, that.'' Artie shrugged. ''Well, I would extend this truly delightful conversation, Doctor; but there's Jacques and Ji… and Torry coming back down the hall this way, I can hear them. And as far as what I'm contributing, I don't know what to think, really. Maybe I simply don't have the necessary patience. Maybe I'm getting tired of fighting it out on this line… all summer, as the Man I work for once said. It begins to feel like the more we dig, the more someone behind us, or in front of us pours in more sand, or mud or boulders, for us to get past! Maybe I'm just getting sick and tired…

 I miss my best friend in the world, more and more, just lately, Doctor. And he's … lost, or what amounts to that. Maybe I should go; it doesn't help anyone, including your young patients, when I'm this disheartened. Maybe I should be glad that Jim's got this … respite after all he went through at that maniac's hands. But, it makes me almost physically ill, Doctor, to think that I spent, that I wasted months making things harder for Jim… and for Torry… and for you. And it makes me feel worse yet, to think that Aynsley used Anne West's death when Jim was five years old, against her son! But it does seem he must have done just that, doesn't it?''

'' I'm as sure of it as if Torry told me so, himself.'' Miguel nodded. '' At that age, the fright and confusion and sorrow of a parent's death are enough to muddle any child. But there are levels and levels, kinds and kinds of loss, Mr. Gordon. And you and I, Jacques and Thomas, and Torry, just to name a handful, all know what it is to lose one's mother at an early age, and how it then and now, differently affects us. In my case, it would be easy, even for me to say, mi madre died when I was born, so how can I mourn her, a woman I literally never knew? But I do that, and I honor her, to this day. In Jacques' case and Thomas', they were both Pre-adolescent boys and their mothers died after long illness. And yet you will still hear them both speak of their mothers with tremendous love and sorrow. And your mother…''

'' Ima, may her memory be for a blessing, died when I was eight and a half, or, I liked to say then, eight and three quarters. She was always, always taking care of one neighbor or another.'' Artie said, shaking his head at the memory. ''And one of them contracted scarlet fever; but ima was certain she'd had that as a girl, in Grodek. So she stayed with that family, doing all she could for a fortnight, and came home, already feverish… And she …died before the month was out. But Jim's mother was gone in one night, one terrifying, baffling night. And he'd just turned five years old! And, it boggles my mind to think how that must have hurt him. And it enrages me to know Jim was forced to live through that night, again!''

''And on that point, we are indeed in full agreement, Mr. Gordon.'' Miguel nodded, and gave a tired smile. ''And that is a practice we really should avoid, don't you think?''

''Incontrovertibly, Doctor, yes.'' Artie almost managed a wan half grin of his own in answer.

'' Miguel?'' Torry called out, now standing in the doorway between the infirmary and the next room, with Jacques right behind him. '' Miguel, th' prise room is veryiest gud! Did you seen it? Did you seen it, 'temusPoppa?''

''No, Torry, I haven't seen the…play room, yet.'' Artemus answered." as Miguel's blue eyes again seemed to mock him, to challenge him not to hurry away.

'' And I haven't either. We'll play in there when I'm quite, quite well again. Now, come and sit down next to me. Artemus and I were only talking a bit too loudly, I'm afraid. Now, we want to talk with you and Jacques."

''Oh, otay, what fer talkin?''

''For what may happen, Torry, when I'm well again, when I'm all done with this bothersome old fever and such. What do you think we might do then?''

''Wees play in th' 'prise room then, yes, Miguel?"'

''Yes, yes we will. And what do you think we might do after that, Torry?''

Torry now grew thoughtful, chewing carefully on his lower lip as if he might find another answer there for his friend's question. ''Dunno… mebbee…mebbee run 'roun some and mebbee singin' and mebbee … hev some of gud soops like beeen soops Tommy did bring onct?''

Even Artemus couldn't help smiling at the way the child thought about better things to do.  What wasn't amusing to any of them, the actor silently acknowledged, was how limited Torry's ideas of playing and having fun seemed to be.

''Torry, those are fine things too, But what I'm talking about is something even better than singing and running around and having bean soups….  It's going somewhere much nicer, drier, warmer and much, much better…'' Miguel began.


	17. Chapter 17

**Scene Seventeen**   Baltimore, MD 1874

The smiling child they rarely saw vanished, while the terrified one they knew too well returned. "No, no Mee-Gell. Plees no, plees, plees, no, cain't … caint." Torry pleaded, in a frantic whisper.

"But what's wrong, Torry?" Miguel asked the child, shaking his head in puzzlement at the two agents.

Reaching for Miguel's hands, Torry grasped them with all his strength. Then he shook his head, clearly too frightened to say of what.

 "Torry, this is a vile place, it's made us both ill.''

"No. Mee-Gell, plees c cain't plees don'. Cain't…tell dis… Torry, stay steill, stay quiyat.. No be dis'bedien, no go ovver place. Torrys stay here, stay here! Here! 'Torry insisted, even more faintly, loosing Miguel's hands and gesturing sharply at the floor, meaning to say this place.

"Why, why can't you?" Artemus demanded, wondering if they were finally going to learn, why the child fought all attempts to take him from the ward downstairs.

" Wees cain't, 'temusPoppa … haveta stay, stay here! Havta wait, wait here, here Torrys stay here, here havta Torrys stay heere!'' the child shook his head, speaking almost too quietly to be heard.

''Torry, no one is going to harm you here; no one is going to hurt you again. We all made that promise, to keep you safe until we can take you home.'' Miguel said, gently rubbing Torry's back, trying to soothe the child.  ''And that's what I was talking about, Torry. When you're well and strong enough to get on the biggest ever train, we'll take you on home again. And I know that's what you want and what you need, what will do you so much good… to go home again, and run and shout and play…''

''Cain't… cain't… izz mos' awfully bad an' bad! Cain't be runnin', caint' be yellin', singin, playin, cryin like babies, Torry cain't be came on home if mees no be be'dien!… cain't…dem… dem tolt mees an mees brovvers… us'ns dat are Torrys…yuu cain't be came on home no, no more, Torrys.'' The child went on, reciting his tormentor's terrible litany.  'Yous gots stay heere… stay steill, stay quiyat. Them toldt me!"

''Mais, mon enfant, Torry, who was it that told you this?'' Jacques asked putting one strong, blunt hand on each of the child's shoulders. '' Who said you must remain here?''

Now the child's eyes grew wide and still wider, shifting worriedly. His thin frame shook, he pulled his hands away from Miguel. He bit at his lower lip and felt all the mos' awfully' baddes' skeeredys, of his bad dreams running back at him 'gen. He wasn't alone with those skeeredys, no, no more, an' dat was veryiest gud. Now with Torrys were their guddes' friens, an dem made no fibbin, no lyin', no owwys or skeeredys on Torrys Littles. It made the child-minds many much saddy when th' b'fore times, when their guddes' friens no finded Torrys, no camed for keepin' Torrys sayf still teld them fings them hadta be doin. But the skeeredys runnin' up with those b'fore times, were so awfully many much bigges' ever… Torrys hadta be no fibbin', no lyin', on thems guddes' ever friens, nows. Sadly now, Torry shook his head and almost as if sighted, turned away from his waiting friends.

'' Wees cain't be tell dis… Jac.  Wees cain't be tell dis Mee-Gell. Wees cain't be tell dis 'temusPoppa… wees many much an much saddy of dis, but wees cain't be tell… Wuld be bein' mos' awfully, mos awfully bad an bad, mos awfully dis' bedien… no tell dis, Torrys, no tell dis… no ever be tellin dis! Torrys stay heere, stay steeel, stay quiyat…be bedien… '' The child/man gulped on a sob and sniffled, looking, all his companions thought, oddly ashamed.

''Torry,'' Artie said, stepping around in front of the sad child. '' We understand you were told those scary things. And you know, I think you know, Torry that those people, those scary people were lying, were fibbing badly to you. And those scary, angry people, aren't coming near you ever, ever again. Because, Jac and Quiet Tommy and Miguel, Jere and Frankie and … temus are keeping you safe, now, so you can get well, so you can go home. Torry, you know that, don't you?''

'' Yeah, 'temusPoppa.'' Torrys glumly nodded, still whispering. '' Mees knows dat.''

''Then, there's something else, Torry.' There is, because we already know you're a very brave boy.'  Artie suggested, putting one strong arm across the child/man's shoulders.  He had an inkling of the answer now. And he didn't like what saying it might do to the man he knew or the child he was facing. But the question, the man and the child couldn't go on much longer, hanging fire.  '' There's something more here, that's scaring you, and making you so sad, is that so, Torry?''

The child only nodded, mutely now. Artie looked to Jac and to Miguel both doctors looking as worried as he was. But neither of them signaled the actor to stop the process. So, feeling he was as blind as or more blind than Torry, Artie pulled the child close once more.

''Torry, all this is scaring you very much, I know that, and I'm sorry. Do you know, do you know I … we wish nothing would hurt you, nothing would ever scare you?'' '' Artie asked in his gentlest voice, waiting until the child nodded before he went on.  '' Well, the reason I ask that, is I think you remember something our Quiet Tommy told you, something he's told me, and Jac, Frankie and Jere, very often, too. It's what he likes to say about what being brave truly … really is, Torry. And you remember what he said, don't you?''

' m' quiyat Tommy… '' Torry frowned a moment, then nodded. '' Hims sed bein' brave is on'y bein' skeered an keep goin, keep doin' whats skeerdy'.''

''That's right. That's right, Torry. And so you've been really very brave, all the time, every day, every single day here, haven't you? '' Artie continued, thinking of all the times he'd chided Jim for being overly reckless. Now that uncompromising, unwavering daring spirit was exactly what they needed. And Artie knew he might have to be the one supplying it, this time. 

'' M' too many much skeered nows, 'temusPoppa!'' Torry finally cried, tears flowing down his face in a way Artemus never though to see, not on Jim West's face. Shaking all over, shaking his head, Torry now surprised the actor again, by wrapping his arms around Artie's shoulders, and hanging on like a drowning man in a heavy sea. . ''Izz too many much bad an' bad mos' awfully skeeredy! Wuld make mees guddes' friens an' mees ovver guddes' peepls so many much awfully hurted an' an' mos' awfully saddy.''

Now, with Jacques' help Miguel crossed the ward to sit next to Torry. The small doctor spared Artie one wide eyed glance, eloquent with the same worry Artemus saw in Jacques' face. What Miguel did next though, thoroughly surprised the actor. While reaching with one hand to rub the child's back once more, the dwarf rapidly finger spelled a brief directive with the other. '' You've clearly struck a prosperous vein here, Gordon. Don't stop now, for goodness sake!''  

''Torry, I think I understand, now.'' Artie told the child/man. '' I think so. But I need you to tell, me, Torry, or at least shake or nod your head, now, if I'm wrong or I'm right. Can you try that? Will you please try, Torry?''

The child nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Artie somehow felt as if he'd won a battle. Maybe_ just a skirmish. You might think about saying something helpful, here, James, at least in my imagination_. Artie chided his 'absent' partner.

Something_ helpful here, at least in my imagination_. Jim's voice, laughing as cheerily as ever at Artie's foibles answered. Oh_, you wanted me to say something, not to say 'something', partner?_ _Okay, you're right, and sorry, Miguel's right, too. You're definitely on to 'something'. Oh, and take care, will you, Artie? You nearly gave Miguel an apoplexy a little while back, when you nearly had one. I'm not gonna be happy if you're … laid up when I'm well again, you know. How in the Sam Hill, will we ever get any work done, that way?_

All right_, you young slave driver, all right!_ Artie mentally shook his head at his imagined partner.

Alright_, you old grifter, alright._ Jim's imagined voice, still laughing said and vanished once more.

The child still stood, tiredly leaning his dark head against Artemus' shoulder.

''Torry, come on and sit down, here, beside … Miguel, and we'll try this.'' Artie suggested, guiding the child to a cot behind him. '' Here's what I think, Torry. I think you're being a very brave, big boy, and worrying about lots of other people. Is that right, for starters?''

One quick nod answered him.

''Good. Very good. Torry. Now, what else I think is that you didn't decide all at once, all by yourself that this … scary thing would hurt your good people, your good friends. Torry, I think some of those scary, angry people told you that was so, told you that would happen. Did they, Torry?''

A double nod, this time. Artie drew a deep breath and went on.

''Alright, Torry. If our Quiet Tommy was here today, he might say I was asking you leading questions. He might say I have to be careful not to tell you, Torry, how I want you to answer. So, Torry, just a shake or a nod, now, just no or yes. And I know this isn't easy, Torry. I know that. 

And maybe it will help you, Torry, I think it might help you, if I tell you how it is I know.''  Artie swallowed hard, took the child's long boned, shaking hands in his own, looked at the grieving face and knew he was right.

'' Torry, when I was a little boy, something very sad and scary happened to me, when I was a few years older than you.. I was almost nine, in fact. My mother… I didn't call her that, I called her _ima,_ _ima Rochel, _got very sick, with a bad fever, and … she died. And I was old enough, by that time to know she'd been helping other people … And that was how she got sick.  And when she first was sick, Torry, I was scared, but I was also very angry. I thought _ima _shouldn't have gone to those other people, shouldn't have helped them. I was angry with her, you see.

And when ima … was gone, I honestly… Torry, I really did think for a while that she was gone because I got so angry with her. I thought ima's going away from me, was my doing, my fault. And until my Zeyde, my grandfather Yakov, sat me down and talked to me, some time later on, I went on believing that. And sometimes, even though that all was so long ago Torry, I wake up from dreaming about ima, crying. I wake up crying because I haven't, even now, completely given up the idea that I hurt her so badly … And you understand how I could feel that way. I'm sure you do. ''

The dark head that had been hanging dejected, jerked upright, the bright, blind gaze stared in roughly Artie's direction. The child's expression was somewhere between relief, dread, and astonishment, all still mixed with sorrow.

 ''Torry, sip some juice, first, c'est ici, mon enfant.'' Jacques suggested, putting a cup into the child's hands. ''Tres bien, tres bien, mon si brave.''

Torry sipped slowly at the cup, then gave a shaky smile. ' Mees like dis, izz likes … izz likes ciders… Jac, fanks you.''

'' De rien, Torry.  Recommence, gentilhommes.''

  '' It's alright, Torry.'' Miguel encouraged the little boy. '' These are good, helping questions 'temus is asking. These will help us make those skeeredys go away far an' far an far. I promise.'' 

''Mee-Gell, Jac, 'temusPoppa… '' The child murmured, shaking his head miserably, with tears slipping down his face, unchecked, looking very much as if he hoped no one could hear. '' Mees no wanna be teld dis. Mees don' wanna… but mees don' wanna make fibs… mees don' wanna make lyin' on mees guddes' friens, dats veryiest baddes' So Torrys no make fibs, no make lyin nows… Torry warn't gud boys. Torry warn't brave neever. Torrys no a baby boy, no, no more nows,

an… Torrys knowed wees done veryiest, veryiest many, much an much bad fing… an wazz mos' awfully dis'bedien, An wazz veryiest mos' awfully weelfu', mos awfully belyus… an dem mos' awfully baddes' owwys an saddys… dey comed … dey comed cos Torrys warn't be'dien… dey comed cos Torrys wazz so, so veryiest bad an dis'bedien… long an long an long… when Torrys wazz no, no more baby boys… when Torrys was … all five an' dem scaredy folks, dem maddy folks… dem knewed dat… dem knewed … dat bad an bad mos' awfully … what Torrys done….''

''Torry, mon enfant,'' Jacques interjected now, straddling a chair he set in front of the child, seeing how the child was almost literally twisting on the points of a dilemma. '' 'temus and Miguel and I, Thomas and Jeremy, Franklin and all our friends, have known you and your brothers for a long, long while, non?  And we know of nothing, nothing at all that you've done that merits this fear or this grief. And we haven't told you any sort of lies, have we, Torry?

Non, we have not. We're your friends, Torry, and as your friends, we ask that you believe us, not these angry, frightening … others. Being grown folks, the sad fact is that all of us have known sorrows, have known fearful times, and have known times when we could not keep sadness or pain or fear from those we love. And if that is what these… others have given you to believe of yourself and your brothers, then, encore, I would ask that you believe us, now, saying to you 'that is not so'. ''

Now, something more like Jim West's summer-lightning temper than they'd seen in months, in years, flashed in the child/man's green eyes. Torry shook his head again, but angrily and confusedly, now. In the next instant, something happened that the trio and their colleagues were only beginning to recognize, much less understand. The child's affect vanished, as if torn away. In its place was a visage none of them had seen, older by some ten or twelve years at least, with a clear but harshly angry voice, like Jim's or Torry's, only at one remove. 

'' Whisperer's had just about enough of this, for one session, anyway, or can't you dim glows tell that?'' this new speaker demanded, glaring directly at them. And when the trio stared back, the newcomer barked laughter. '' We weren't all of us blinded that day! Some of us weren't even there, that day! And some of us whilst in th' Army, actually learned to duck! But you lot wouldn't know about that either, would you? No, no, you couldn't! Because not one of you, except, you, Play-Actor, or anybody else on ol' Mac's team was within shouting distance, that day? Not very bright, are you, for a pair of self-styled geniuses and a graduate of l' Sorbonne?'' 

''You're not Courier, are you?'' Miguel asked, ignoring the speaker's manner, and manners.

'' And I should answer your question, before you answer mine, why, exactly, Doctor Dim Glow?'' the alternate demanded.

''Oh, no reason, no reason.'' Miguel demurred. '' We believe we've come to or very close to a breakthrough with Torry… Torry-Whisperer, in this case, as you indicate. We may have become over enthusiastic in trying our new line of questions. We also share the belief that Torry and all of your brothers will at some point need to confront the root cause of their, pardon me, of your separate existence. ''

'' But that's neither here nor there, right now, is it? And we're really s'posed to believe you lot have made common cause?'' this alternate demanded.

'' Well, no, I tend to think of it as an armed truce, placed in effect only for the duration.'' Artie surprised himself by quipping.

''Now that, we might just believe, Play-Actor! And of course the Canuck here tagged along with Mac, comin' out to ask you in, Doc. Still sure that was such a fine idea, Jack?''

''Vraiment.'' Jacques nodded calmly. '' Your Oldest and not a few of your youngest brothers were in some considerable need.''

''And it's how many months later and they still are? Not to mention we're all of us still stuck in this … what'd you call it, Doc, this corner of hell? Some friends, and some danged Fed agents of one heck of a danged Fed government, ain't you?''

'' We're doing all that can be done, here, while Thomas and his contacts, as well as Torry's… as well as your own family, do all that can be done, elsewhere.'' Miguel said. '' Apparently you missed that part of the conversation. In fact, we expect the legalities and illegalities of this matter to be cleared up in good order, shortly. But Torry, that is, the Torrys are still struggling with the compulsion they were given, to remain here.''

'' And it doesn't occur to you to give the tykes an armful of hype or a sip or two of laudanum, and tote 'em on out the door, here?''

'' It does, in fact, occur to me on a regular basis. Therefore I would say it also, very likely, occurs to my colleagues, m'sieur. And we already know the potential for us doing just that has occurred to the miserable excuses for human beings who administrate this … place.'' Jacques answered, this time.

'' And you and I have met, before now, I believe. You were newly promoted to full Captain, that is, to all appearances, Jim West was. You celebrated by getting just inebriated enough to make a mockery of most of your superior officers, and some of your classmates at West Point. And you complained that they found you to be a martinet, far too rigid a disciplinarian, and comment t'on dit, oh, oui, a stick in the mud. They apparently nicknamed you 'Tin Man'.

'' A hit, a veritable hit!'' another, older, warmer voice cried out, while the mocking youth, frowned, shook his head and disappeared. '' My apologies, gentlemen, TM never likes to overstay his welcome, where he is welcome. And he seems to think that happens as soon as someone or another realizes his identity; somewhat in the nature of Eros and Psyche or perhaps, Rumpelstiltskin. M'sieur D'artagnan Lieutenant of his majesty's Musketeers, at your service… perhaps.'' This new speaker smiled and bowed as deeply and gracefully as any Dumas' courtier.

''Ummm… perhaps?'' Artie asked. ''I don't' know about your young friend, the one who was in and out of here so fast just then But I have been under the impression that we're all on the same team, here, all trying to help Jim… and Torry. Am I wrong about that, m'sieur lieutenant?''

'' It might be more accurate to say we have a very long-lived armistice in place with you and your colleagues. But it's one we've worked industriously, to keep you gentilhommes unaware of, for some time, now. That's one of the main protections we provide Oldest Torry, otherwise someone might think our Oldest brother had quite lost his reason. And in a certain odd way, its one of the main protections Oldest Torry affords us , in turn, showing what seems to the unaware, only one face and one mind to the so called real world.''

'' And that's fascinating, truly. '' Miguel nodded. ''But also, neither here nor there, just now. You and Tin Man have now quite effectively tripped up what had been a very insightful session. And I have to wonder, on that basis, if I myself have been mistaken in attributing only good intentions to you and the Littles older brothers, _M'sieur de Gascony_. What motive or motives you could have for creating yet another obstacle course, I cannot say. Perhaps you would be kind enough to help me understand your actions, just then.''

 Still smiling, without another word, the alternate shook his head and disappeared; and for the third time Miguel, Artemus and Jacques knew they were looking at a different 'brother'. This one seemed older than Torry by only six or seven years, a wary youth who studied the trio as intently now as they did him, before speaking, in a defiant tone.

'Y' don't have to ride TM or 'tagnan, that way, y'know.'' he declared, frowning, 'they were just place-sittin' for me; cause I took th' point last night and only now got in. And they weren't even detailed for that; it's just a sorta kinda habit by now with the Four. Course I shoulda rode in sooner, coulda guessed y' might try triple-teaming little Whisperer. He's only one of the easiest shook of all Th' Ls! Real proud of yourselves, are y', scaring a tyke like that so bad? Yeah, that's how I had it figured! Oh, scuse m' manners! 'm chief Scout for th' Ss, and that's how I'm called, too. Scout.

Oldest used to read some about the first coeur-du-bois and mountain men and Army Indian Scouts…Y' figure, y' claim to know so much 'bout Oldest, how come y'er only now getting us figured?''

'' The concept alone is a rather daunting one, Scout.'' Miguel answered. '' Not much is understood of this condition. And our objective for many months was to find the source of Torry's … of the Torry's self-destructive, compulsive reactions; not the root cause of his… of your severance from the personality of origin. I begin to think, however, that those two cannot and should not be considered as separate, but as two streams of events flowing from one and the same well-spring. Would you agree with that assessment?''

'' If we didn't have to wade through your fifty-cent piece lingo, mebbee.'' Scout laughed harshly. '' And mebbee not. We ain't a condition! We ain't a concept, neither. And we sure as all get out ain't any kind of objective, any kind of destructive, or any kind of dang-fool reactions! Y'all keep makin' us out to be them things, to be only things, Ye'll never get us figured!'' 

 '' Well, I think Scout may just have a point there, Doctor.'' Artie said, before Miguel could take up the challenge.

'' Do you, indeed, Mr. Gordon?'' Miguel asked, turning his frown from the youth to the agent. _Of course he does, and so do I!_ Miguel signed. But_ if you think we should allow our young friend here to think he can 'divide and conquer'…_  ''And what, pray, tell, would that be?''

'' I only wanted to say I think he's only asking to be treated, not as a symptom, but as a person. '' Artie shrugged and signed back. That's_ what usually works best, when faced with multiple.. challenges, I find_. '' Did I get that figured the way you have it, Scout?''

'' Close enough, figure. But TM's right, you bunch ain't much for brains, for all your fancy schoolin', are y'?''

''Well, actually, Scout, Mr. Gordon never bothered to complete his formal schooling.'' Miguel answered, grinning fiercely at the actor. '' No doubt he had far, far better things to do.''

'' And a far, far better place I go to, someday!'' Artie finished the Dickens quote, with all sarcasm stops full out. ''One in which I'm not forced to deal on a daily basis with you, and your vast array of awards, certificates and diplomas, Doctor!''

''You're shouting again, Mr. Gordon. You're only going to raise your blood pressure and frighten the child, the children, I meant to say, by doing that.'' Miguel sneered.  ''I believe I already discussed that with you. And as has happened so often, you've simply chosen

 to disregard… ''

Jacques sighed and rolled his eyes upwards, looking for, he knew, help that wasn't forthcoming. '_' Gentilhommes_.'' He said, quietly at first. '_'Gentilhommes._'' He repeated, more sternly. And when they still failed to take note, the Quebecois raised his own, clear, compelling voice. _''GENTILHOMMES! ARETE! ET IMMEDIATEMENT, S'IL VOUS PLAIS!''  _

''What? Oh, right, Jacques. You're right.'' Artie muttered, glancing sidelong at 'Jim', and almost 'seeing' the youthful stranger called Scout, instead.

''Oh, oh, surely, Jacques.'' Miguel nodded. ''Scout, old fellow, '' he then said, turning back to the youth. '' I wonder if you could … I wonder if you wouldn't mind elucidating some of the terminology you were employing earlier as regards your … your being here. We'd be quite gratified and most probably far better equipped to offer whatever assistance we may.''

''What d'ye' say?'' Scout asked, cocking his head and squinting at the small doctor. ''What'd

he say?''

'' He said we'd really like you to explain why you were talking about being 'detailed' and 'riding in' and 'taking the point' and … oh, yes, what exactly are 'the four', was that the whole list, Doctor?''  Artie asked, swallowing a grin and molding his features back to a semblance of gravity.

''That was more than complete, thank you, Mr. Gordon.'' Miguel rolled his eyes in the same way Jacques had, also to no avail. '' I actually do understand a great deal of common military usage. And I believe Scout was probably referring to being given certain duties, taking some sort of advance lookout position, and then making his return to some sort of common or general locality. But that other tern, 'quads', I am curious to know, what sort an assemblage with four parts does that refer to? Can you tell us, please?''

'' Well, figure we ain't exactly let all y'all in on that one.''  Scout said, still looking from one of the trio to another, to another. '' It's pretty much just how we finally worked out th' Watch. We don't haveta explain how watches are kept nor set up neither, do we?''

''Non.'' Jacques answered in his turn. '' You would be referring to how an encampment is guarded, with different persons taking different periods of time, to take up far advance, or perimeter or picket line positions, c'est vrai?''

'' Yeah.'' Scout nodded. '' So, th' Four got set up to make th' watches and details even out. An' when things are quiet, that set-up pretty much stays th' same for a whole, entire campaign or season. An' when things are rough, we sort th' watches out different. Can't take th' Ls out of camp at times like that, y' know? Can't keep th' Ls from standin' watch for th' Vs, neither. Those tykes are plumb mulish, 'bout their detail. Y'all still don't get this, d' y'?''

'' I think we're edging up on it, though.'' Artie told him. '' The Ls… the Vs.. . and the Ss… those are three … ''

'' Those are three of The Four. There's also th' Ds. Look, how do we know y'all are cleared to get this, anyhow?''

'' I don't have an answer for you, on that one, Scout.'' Artie admitted, despondently. '' I have to hope that if he could, Jim would tell you to trust me… to trust us. I have to hope he still knows we can be trusted, at least to do all we can when he's in trouble. But for my part, I know I let Jim down, and badly, the last time we … talked. So, I can't even say with any certainty that he would trust me, now.''

'' Jim? Who? … Oh, oh, right, that's what you call Oldest. He's been danged quiet of late, that's certain sure. Look, I'm going to check with some of the other Ss an' Vs an' Ls on this… an' Tin might have some ideas, too. He's done some few details with Oldest… back in the day.  Look, it's not as whopper-jawed and mixed up six ways from Sunday as it looks from your side of things. We just take care of each other. That's the whole, entire thing of it kinda in a nutshell, right there. An' you're … a sorta kinda Four… … with them other fellas…Y' re always sayin how y'er a team an' all. So, y'all watch out for, y'all take what care y' can of each other. An' y'all call in who and how y' need to … as y' need to. Else all y' all wouldn't even be here, right now, would y'?''

'' No, it's not likely we would be.'' Miguel answered.  '' Your Oldest brother has made our common cause; of the troubles he seems to be having. And I think I have a better grasp on that last … bit of usage. You and Tin Man, D'artagnan and Whisperer are … one of your Four, is that a correct assumption?''

''Yep. Not bad. Mebbee we shouldn't have sed you weren't so bright. It started out and it stays mostly as to how we set th' watches:  Whisperer watches for D'artagnan, then 'tagnan watches for TM, Tin watches for … me, an' I watch for Whisperer. Mebbee we don't need to confab 'bout this. That should really get it figured for y'. Far as y' need it figured.''

''Whisperer…'' Artie repeated, mostly to himself, 'watches for D'artagnan… The youngest watches for the … oldest, and not the other way around?''

'' What kinda sense would that make?'' Scout asked, almost grinning. '' Oh, okay, y'er still not getting th' whole, entire picture. How could th' Vs get here b'fore th' Ls did? You're getting' it all whopperjawed, now, cause you're stuck on how we call Oldest Torry 'Oldest'. Can't hardly help that one, now can we? No, no more n' we can help what that motherless…'' Abruptly, Scout opened his mouth and closed it tautly shut again, bright green eyes

watching the trio to see if they noticed. They did. After exchanging glances, Artemus and Miguel deferred to Jacques this time. Turning back to Scout, the Quebecois smiled as reassuringly as he knew how. Which had been known to be very much so.

 '' Mon ami, if I may call you that, my friend, we are not unaware, as M'sieur D'artagnan put it, of the most likely root cause for your… arrival, and your long term service, in protecting your oldest brother. And as he is our friend of many years himself, we have no desire to cause Jim yet more harm by any further maladroit, misguided, or ill-conceived measures. I was attempting to impress just that on l' petit Whisperer. I did it badly, J'l regret. Will you let me tell you why we are so gravely concerned with helping Jim and you and all your brothers past the obstacles our true adversaries placed upon the smallest of your brothers?''

'' You're scared th' Ls will pick up another fever, a worse one. You're scared Doc Miguel here will get sick again, cos that last could've easy taken him off. An' you're scared that stayin' in a rat's nest like this ain't much good for anybody, much less Oldest, who's been sick more than he's been well nigh onta two years now. An' y'er right 'bout all that.  Y' need to get us outa here. An' th' Ls got it well an' truly stuck in their heads they can't go. '' Scout surprised them by telling the trio what they'd thought they kept from him, still with that studying, wary affect, still all but pacing in front of them in a very Westian-fashion. '' An' y'haven't quite got the why of that whole, entire picture, neither. Not yet. Well, I may walk punishment detail a fortnight for this; but here it is:  The Ls are mixed up too, from bein sick an' scared an' sick yet again.

They're NOT recallin' just now that our Dad passed on near onta nine years back. An' th' Ls don' really think so much as they b'lieve things… an' they were given t' believe th' nigh onta oldest lie AGAIN,… 'bout th' danged … fire…when … momma died…  'bout all of that. An' I ain't goin' even one step closer on that one. Y'er gonna haveta walk th rest of th' way yerselves, if y' ain't already. An' it seemed like y' were getting' there… or danged close to it. So y'all confab mongst y'selves a bit now. I'm on watch now, with th' Ss. So y'er not talkin' to Whisperer' or any of th' Ls… Tin was right, like he sometimes is, y' know. Whisperer was on th' ragged edge there. I won't let y' push him, or this talk, anymore t'night. Y' can get that much can't y'?''

''Oui.'' Jacques nodded, as the youth waited and watched. '' Et merci, mon jeune ami. Remerci. We will now, with your leave, confer un moment. Gentilhommes, avant… '' The younger doctor said and, one hand on Artie's and one Miguel's back, herded both his friends away from the wary, watching youth.

''You've got some kind of idea of what we do next, mon docteur-ami?'' Artie asked the Canadien, once they were across the room from 'Scout'.

'' Only what our _jeune ami_ has now reminded me of. His youngest brothers, he says, have for the most part, reached the saddest, most terrible point in their lives, where they lost their _si cher maman,_ and their first home, all in one night, as you said. And when Torry's maman died, his father perforce became the single most important person in the child's life, in his world. expected development with any bereft child. How much more powerful must  the need be of a child for their surviving parent, when he suffers such a stark loss? And our enemies, somehow knowing of that disastrous night when Torry was barely five years old, _les laches, les batards_, I now firmly believe, took on themselves the role of Jim's beloved father.

Our enemies, seeing how fiercely these child-minds cling to their memory of their father's love, how desperately they hold on to their memory of his approbation, did all they could to tear that love, and that approval from these children's hands! _Et, mes amis, j' crois que… _I begin to believe these monstrous conspirators further conspired to lay the full weight of his mother's loss, his mother's death, on these children's spirits, in their hands and on their small heads! You were, only a little while ago, working towards this same premise yourself, Artemus, _mon ami, non? _  And Miguel, you also have been moving in this direction, towards this self-same hypothesis, _c'est vrai?''_

'' Oui.'' The other two quietly chorused, surprising themselves a bit.

''Oui, bien sur. Then we have wasted much time, mes amis. We are likely on the right track now.  But we have spent far too much time, energy and concern with Jim's putative nightmares of the late War; and with the question of whether or not Jim West attempted either suicide or assassination or both, when he last met with M'sieur Grant. Yet again, I believe we are seeing a divided intent, an alienated motive on the part of our present adversaries. Some of them surely seem to have wished for a _coup d' état, j'crois, une_ _revolution_, if you will. But some, if not all of these conspirators also intended to destroy Jim West, whether he should succeed in assassinating the President or not. They meant that Jim should be devastated, damaged beyond all help or hope, whether or not he ever realizes what they compelled him to do!''

'' They sought to protect themselves in that way, is that what you're suggesting now, Jacques?'' Miguel asked, growing excited, and alarmed, throwing a worried glance at Scout.

''Oui, but not only that. The sort of enforced amnesia we've found Artemus to be suffering, until only recently would surely have sufficed in Jim's case as well, to keep him from revealing these _enfants du Careme!_ _Non, mes amis,_ I fear a far darker purpose lies beneath such matters of their self-preservation. Some one among these enemies, we are learning more and more with time, knows a great deal about _notre jeune frer_e.'' Now Jacques looked across at Scout, and then back to his friends, speaking quietly, for the sake of discretion.

''Therefore I have occupied my mind with the question I believe we have all been asking of late:  How could someone none of us, none of Jim's friends are aware of, be so familiar with his childhood, his family and the tragedies they've endured? And the answers I've come to my friends, do not warm the cockles of my heart. The answers I come to are that among the true monsters who so clearly demonstrated their hatred for James as an adult, their wish to destroy him, hides someone yet more vile.

Among them hides the literally hateful person who abused small Torry as a very young child, such that his brothers disassociated from their origin-self in order to defend him. If that is not the case, if that is not our enemy's true intent, why have they taken such outrageous measures against a man no longer in his right mind? Why would they continue to torment, to punish and to terrorize these children? Mes, amis, I believe now, these horrific things were done because these children KNOW who misused them, and THAT revelation, not the details of a political conspiracy, is what this true madman, this genuine monster STILL fears, some thirty years on!'' Jacques finished with an emphatic nod.

''Jacques, I know you believe what you're saying... I know you wouldn't be as outraged if you didn't see this idea as the truth of the matter. But, and I don't think I'm playing their game any longer, I'm only wondering how what is already a damned bizarre, complicated situation could be even more complicated, even more bizarre. What I guess I'm really asking, is, why in thirty some years time, this abuser hasn't tried to destroy Jim... and ... his brothers, before now, to seal his damnable secret?'' Artie demanded fiercely, but also _sotto voce._

'' We don't know he hasn't tried to do just that, _mon ami._ We don't know that because he and Jim and Jim's brothers are the only ones who can tell us. Perhaps if we work very hard indeed, these brothers will trust us enough to answer your question. But their protection, and Jim's, all these years has been, to a great extent, their silence, wouldn't you say?'' Jacques told the actor.

'' All right, I see what you're saying, mon docteur ami, why on earth should these... brothers give up those 'earth works' at this late date? Why should they trust anyone? And I guess more than anything I have to wonder, why should they trust me?'' Artemus went on, still shaking his head and frowning in confusion.

'' Because you haven't given up on James West, I'd say would be their answer, Mr. Gordon. You've had demons to fight off of your own all through this time, and you haven't once backed off from whatever you saw as defending or protecting or helping your partner. On the basis of that recent behavior alone, not even considering years of friendship and loyal support, I would be more inclined to ask why they wouldn't trust you.

And I believe, truly, I do, that the time is coming when we can ask and get the answers to all these questions from Major West or his brothers.'' Miguel answered, before Jacques could, and Artie found himself taken aback again, when turning to the docteur-agent, he found Jacques nodding in complete agreement. 

After a moment spent frowning and pondering these ideas, the actor's wide dark eyes grew still wider as he excitedly clapped Jacques on his shoulders.  '''' Damn them! But, you're right, Jacques! No, you're not just right, my friend, you've struck solid gold!''

'' Vraiment, Artemus? Ou?'' Jacques chuckled.

'' Their damned double intents and yet more damnable double messages have been there, staring me … well, actually, shouting at me, from the day Jim went to see the Man!'' Artie told him. '' You're right, the War, and all the war-time nightmares that Jim and I both came away from those bastards torture with, were almost a  side issue to what they really wanted! All the rekindled doubts and grief and anger from the War… all the remorse that Jim came back with about the worst, all the very worst times back then; I came back with too, but neatly buried for later nightmares! And all that was just a blasted cover! A smoke screen! And especially for Jim, and … even more so, for the… Torrys. The War, our War, hadn't even been sparked when they were little boys!'' Artie continued.

''And I took the President's first report, his first de-briefing after that insane girl attacked him. And I sat with her a short while, while she lay in another room off that hallway, dying. That mad woman-child lay there dying, bleeding out, with nothing anyone could do to stop it. And all that time she was still quietly, even calmly reciting, still reciting what those monsters wanted Jim to believe, despite everything that went wrong with their damnable plots and planning. And she lay there at first, in that hallway, the President in plain view, putting the last handful of nails in the coffin those bastards wanted to fit Jim West for!  And it was another damn-all double message!''

 ''What dying girl is this, Mr. Gordon? Who was she? What did she say to Torry? What corridor? What are you talking about that you haven't told me, yet again?'' Miguel demanded, in rapid-fire style.

'' We only found out about her, months later, Doctor, while the few witnesses we had were giving depositions. She carried Confederate money, and papers, saying she was Liesl Branoch, from Atlanta. And that's what she said, that's what she screamed at the President.."' Artie told him.

'' The witnesses saw a red-headed girl, dressed all in deep mourning clothes, walk with Jim right up to the door of the President's suite. But luckily for all of us, I have say, she wasn't allowed inside. She waited, the President's detail told us, pacing and gesticulating, laughing and crying wildly, even cursing, especially cursing them out, whenever one of the detail asked if she wanted a chair or a glass of water Then, when Jim emerged from the suite, walking with the President, almost leaning on him, in fact, the witnesses said, this girl screamed bloody murder, and pulled an Army Colt revolver… How she could even lift the blasted thing, I have no idea!''

'' This was the weapon that may have chain-fired or otherwise malfunctioned, injuring Major West, then? And the girl was fatally injured?'' Miguel asked, in a somewhat calmer tone. ''And what exactly did she say, Gordon, that 'put the last nails in the coffin'?''

Artemus sighed, pulling up his own worst memory of that day.'' I only reached that corridor, outside the suite after Jim had somehow run the other way… I heard the explosion, saw the crowd  in the hotel lobby start for the staircase. And I ran… I ran up those stairs as if I were … thirteen again! The President was fine, and adamantly refusing to leave the scene at first. The girl was … all but torn in half. And she was saying what I cannot forget, even though it made no sense to me, then. ''Torry, '' She said. '' Torry, you did it. You did it.  Torry, you did it! You killed him for me. You killed the Butcher, Grant, for me. Torry, Torry, Torry…''

'' A truly double-message, for the child and for the Courier, as well. A double-entendre, indeed, meant ' to destroy Jim West, should he succeed or not'' Miguel repeated, sighing. ''Now, is there anything more I might need to know about that day, _gentilhommes_?''

''Only that I wasn't supposed to be up in that hallway, Doctor.'' Artie answered him, looking at Jacques, not at Miguel. '' Only that I was supposed to be, according to the patterning I was given, waiting at the hotel's main entry, for Jim to run out into the street there, so I could shoot him down like a rabid dog! And there was a backup plan for that, too! Once we knew Jim hadn't died; then I was supposed to object to, criticize, challenge and otherwise constantly obstruct any and every attempt to help him recover. That's all.''

'' I thought it didn't seem quite in character for you, Mr. Gordon.'' Miguel told the actor.

'' You thought no such thing!'' Artie insisted.

'' Oh, but I did. You see, your disliking, and distrusting my methods and me, I expected that, surely. Your arguing against my participation in this, too, of course. But doing those same things where your colleagues are concerned? No, no, you're much too loyal to them for such odd behavior. Not only that, I seriously doubt you would, of your own volition, argue with your friends, in my presence. '' 

''You know me too well, Doctor.'' Artie said, with a mocking bow. ''You know all of us too well, by half, for my comfort, under more usual circumstances. I'm not sure we're ever going to get back to usual circumstances though, thanks to Herr Professor Doctor Stephan Johannes Aynsley and company, so our armed truce still holds.'' 

'' What did you say?'' Miguel asked again, wondering how many times he'd heard that name and ignored it.

'' I said, we're not likely to get back to usual …''

'' The name, Gordon, the Herr Professor Doctor's given name!''

'' Stephan… Great G-d in Heaven!'' Artie exclaimed, dark eyes wide as saucers.

''Sacre! '' Jacques whispered. '' How could I ignore …''

'' It was too simple, my friends. It was too obvious! It was so much a coincidence that we naturally disregarded it as having significance.'' Miguel answered, half smiling. '' The man who took on the role of Torry's … of all the Torry's 'Poppa', happens to have a quite similar first name to that of his father, Stephen West. And we all missed that one. So never mind casting self blame in all directions. And Aynsley? Yes, of course! He published his theories on memory work during and after working in the Crimea! We just might be able to find those journals, Jacques, perhaps in some medical library. But more than that, surely you and your colleagues are still searching for the man himself, the chief Author of all this trouble?''

'' We are, with no luck whatsoever.'' Artie nodded. '' For all we know the man's gone back to Europe, back to Vienna or Zurich or one of a thousand other places! It's one of the damned holes I still have in my memory of being … patterned. I have no idea where his laboratory, or his wretched isolation boxes are or were! They could be dismantled and sold for junk by this time! That whole house could have been razed, including his laboratory in the attic, and we wouldn't…Hold on, hold on… ''

''Artemus, mon ami, another recollection comes to you?'' Jacques asked.

'' Yes! I remember his bloody … Jacques. Aynsley's house is, or was a rickety, rambling three-story frame structure. And it can't be, it can't have been very far from the town, from Baltimore! I got hauled into and out of a two-horse rig, the night I left their agreeable company, and thrown onto a gravel covered back lot … in next to no time, in less than half an hour. And they were going to finish me off, right there… But someone heard a police whistle, in the next street over… I heard it, too, and then I passed out cold, and only woke up in the hospital. ''

''And that house, Gordon, anything more about it?'' Miguel demanded.

'' I'm not sure. I'm… thinking it must have been well off the Washington- Baltimore road. I certainly never heard wagons or carriages… A lot of horses came in and out of the dooryard, I heard them, and a lot of men shouting and arguing … until Aynsley stomped downstairs to stop it, again. The house was … almost falling apart, I think. Nothing was done about repairs, anyway, except there always seemed to be somebody patching the roof, up over that attic!''   Artemus rubbed at his forehead and then at his neck as more fragmented details arose in his thoughts.

'' This Aynsley, cette bâtard, mon ami, was he the only person you saw there? You spoke of men in the yard, men taking you into the city… But … ''

'' the girl!'' Artie almost jumped up now, exclaiming. '' That same girl was at that house, at that damned laboratory cum torture chamber! And if he had any human feeling at all, it was for her… Aynsley, I mean. He was watchful, strict… and in an odd way, protective of her. But she kept vacillating, that young girl, between demanding, and wanting his discipline and hating it, between spewing a few diatribes of her own against the President, the Yankees, the siege of Atlanta, and a lot of other fun things, and behaving as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth! She was completely crazy! And, I was right, Jacques, there was an expiration date on their damnable memory blocks! Or else they expected my expiration date to come first!  Does that mean there's a time limit for their blocks on Jim's memory, too?''

'' Possibly, possibly, Gordon. I'm not sanguine about that, though. The different length of your captivity, and Torry's, doesn't support as easy a recovery from this forced amnesia, for him.''  Miguel told him, shaking his head, unhappily. ''I know that's not what you wish to hear, Mr. Gordon. It's not the answer I'd wish to give you, believe me.''

''Easy, you call that easy?'' Artie almost laughed. Then he shook his head. ''No, I get it, I do. And I believe you, Doctor, surprisingly enough, I do. I know that for each day Aynsley kept me in that attic, he kept Jim a month! And he must have… I've got to try to remember… if that monster tried the same kind of lousy, lying memory tricks on me…'' The actor frowned, shaking his head, and squinting as if trying to see something on the horizon.

Jacques glanced back across the infirmary, to where 'Scout' still kept watch. That youthful 'brother' self had some of the same intensity of energy and affect, of movement and speech the Quebecois remembered from his own first encounters with First Lieutenant, James West.  Scout's grammar was worse now than Jim's had been since his Grandmother West, a former schoolteacher herself took him in hand at age five and a half. But his defiant courage in the face of three adult quasi-strangers, was the same daring Jacques had seen the soldier-agent show a thousand times, in the face of overwhelming odds against them. Perhaps_ I will see you grinning at every challenge again, sometime, mon enfant. Perhaps not. If it can be done, though, I will help un-earth you, where our enemies tried to leave you buried, mon jeune frere, J't' promis! _

Now, Jacques turned back towards Miguel and then towards Artemus, as he realized it wasn't the dwarf but the actor who was murmuring a prayer, his dark head bowed, in an ancient language all three men knew, for differing reasons. Jacques quickly glanced at Miguel, and found the older doctor listening as intently as he was himself to Artemus reciting the Mourner's Prayer, tears streaming down his face.

_''Yisgadal v'yiskadash sh'mei rabbaw_

_B'allmaw dee v'raw chir'usei_

_v'yamlich malchusei,b'chayeichon, uv'yomeichon,_

_uv'chayei d'chol beis yisroel,  
ba'agawlaw u'vizman kawriv, v'imru: Amein._

_Amein_

Y'hei sh'mei rabbaw m'vawrach l'allam u'l'allmei allmayaw)

_Y'hei sh'mei rabbaw m'vawrach l'allam u'l'allmei allmayaw_

_Yis'bawrach, v'yishtabach, v'yispaw'ar, v'yisromam, v'yis'nasei,_

_v'yis'hadar, v'yis'aleh, v'yis'halawl sh'mei d'kudshaw b'rich hu_

_b'rich hu_

_L'aylaw min kol birchawsaw v'shirawsaw,_

_tush'b'chawsaw v'nechemawsaw, da'ami'rawn b'all'maw, v'imru: Amein_

_Amein_

_Y'hei shlawmaw rabbaw min sh'mayaw,v'chayim_

_awleinu v'al kol yisroel, v'imru: Amein_

_Amein  
Oseh shawlom bim'ro'mawv, hu ya'aseh shawlom,_

_awleinu v'al kol yisroel v'imru: Amein_

_Amein''_

Neither doctor said a word for a long, quiet moment, once Artemus ended the prayer. Jacques was just about to touch the actor's shoulder, when the most surprising thing in a surprising day occurred. While intent on Artie, neither Jacques, nor it seemed, Miguel had noticed shuffling footsteps, coming back across the small room. Both doctors noticed at once, and stared, when a shaking, long-boned hand, and a small, solemn voice reached out in Artemus' direction.

''No be so saddy, 'temusPoppa.'' Whisperer was saying almost too quietly to be heard. '' No be so many much saddy, plees, 'temusPoppa. Wees sowwy yous so many saddied…. Wees wist you dint have so much many of saddys. Wees wist you dint have enny of so much bad saddys.''

Now Artie looked up, looking as startled as Jacques felt, at first. His dark eyes were a bit unfocused and bright with unshed tears. Then he blinked and shook his head, gently took the child's hand, laid it against his face and shook his head once more. Clearly liking that gesture, the child swiftly moved to embrace the actor-agent, startling him again. After another wordless moment, Artemus pulled back to talk to the child. '' It's not such an awful saddy to have, Whisperer. It's not, really. It's sort of like having just a little ache inside, just a little one that helps make sure you don't forget, that helps make sure I don't forget ima Rochel, as if I ever could. But thank you, Whisperer, thanks, very many much. That was very kind, truly.''

''Wees no fergits usn's momma, neever.'' The child asserted. '' Just them bad an scaredy folks made us'ns little achey some of veryiest big an veryiest many much owwy all overs 'gen. them bad an' scaredy folks them made your little achey grow big an big too, dint they, 'temusPoppa?''

''They did their level best on that score, yes, they did, Whisperer. And now I know why the Vs couldn't be here before the Ls were. You and your small brothers are the first-born, the eldest, not the youngest ones at all. But I still don't, we still don't know what all those Ls and Ds and Ds and Vs stand for. Can you tell us, Whisperer, please?''

''Yeah uh-huh, can. An' izz kinda sorta funnier, too. Usn's veryiest brave n' no skeeredy Ds call thems Defians, … dey sayd dat cause dey'll fight jus' bout ennybodies… wees calls dem us'ns Defen'ers, an some of times us'ns Trus'ees cos wee knowd them wuld allus p'tect all us'ns… cos dey camed when us'ns guddes' momma wen' far an' far an' far ways t' be a angel… long an' long an' long an' long… ennyhows, dem camed affer us Ehlss. Den us'ns Esses camed… an' dey call dems Sen'ries…  an' camed t' watch fer us'ns Ehlss, wen wees did be havta go far an far t' skools… wen us'ns braves' Ds did be needn' t' fight 'ways dat veryiest baddes' an skeeriest mememberin… … so us'ns Ds, fight dem all ways, far an far… so dey did veryiest guddes'…

An us'ns Esses do still be takt t' poin', many much of times… wees calld dems us'ns guddes' Sen'nels. An us'ns guddes' 'martes' Vs camed… wees so many much prowds of dem! Dey camed wen wazz gonna be lots big grown folks fightin… wen wazz dat ol' Wahr, memember? An' affer dems wuld allus do dem grown folks talkin' games, an grown folks fings like dat… an wees called us'ns Ved'rans… cause dey camed frou dat ol' Wahr… an' dem ovver grown folks fightins… so dems bee us'ns Sojers… An us'ns Ells camed firs', lik you sayd, 'temus Poppa, long an' long an' long an veryiest long… Wees camed wen us'ns Oles' Torry was hardly even a baby… wif dat mos' awfully baddes' an' skeeriest mans camed… but dat …mememberin… dat was wen us'ns guddes' Ol'est Torry did be need hims brovvers so wees camed But… wees cain't allus do dem mememberin's … no dis times… plees, mebbee some ovver times, plees?''

''Surely, Torry.'' Artemus agreed, shuddering at the mere idea of broaching the subject with these children, much less with his young partner.

''An' wees tot us'ns brovvers wat dey needed so some of times wees did be callin us Tut'rs,  … izz mos' funnier names, izz, 'temusPoppa?''

''Izz.'' Artie nodded, bemused by this wise-child-spirit with face of his best friend.

''Whisperer, '' Miguel interjected. ''Only a little while ago you were too much scared to tell us almost exactly what you just told 'temus. So, I have to admit to being a bit confuddled. And it's not easy for me to be confuddled, much less to admit it. Why aren't you scared by that veryiest big veryiest many owwy, now?'''

'' Wees did be napped, Mee-Gell an' wees allus go an huggs on usn's guddest prettiest, 'singin' laffin' runnin' huggin wif goldybrown hairs an Ranoff green eyes like hers Torrys Littles, momma … wen wees nappin… she does be take skeeredys all aways… allus… '' Whisperer told them, sagely. ''An nows wees ken go an hugg on usn's guddest quiyat, pipe smokin' sailin' an smilin', an ridin wif Torrys Littles Poppa, some of times wen wees napped. Dat makes usn's Poppa smile very many bigges' an he'll read fairy books an stuffs like dat wif usn's Littles. Wen wees dint be napped awhiles… skeeredys get veryiest

 big an veryiest bigges' … Mebbee wees need be napped mores, dunno.''

''You know a great deal more than many, many grown folks, Whisperer, mon enfant.'' Jacques asserted, smiling.

''Whisperer, if you don't mind there is one other question I've been wanting to ask for several weeks now.'' Artie said. '' Why is it that you and your … the Littles call me 'temus-Poppa? I don't really look so much like him, but I … ''

''Nun-uh, 'temusPoppa! '' The child giggled. '' Yous hugs like usn's guddes' Poppa! An some of times… '' the child turned away and back. '' Some of times, wees reely likta hugg wen wees no be napped… an some of times wees be veryiest far ways from nappin times an den them darn ol' skeeredys run up at us… an den wees reelly wanta hugg… izz otay, izz?''

'' Izz very okay!'' Artie nodded, and proved it by hugging the child warmly, again. ''So, before you napped, just now,'' the actor asked. '' There were those darn old scaredys running up at you, is that what happened, Whisperer?''

'' Yeah uh-huh. Wees no haveta taks 'bout them ol darn scaredys nows, 'gen?''

''No, Whisperer, not a bit.'' Miguel answered. ''In fact, I think it would be a fine idea for you to show 'temus your 'prise room. He hasn't seen it yet, after all.''

'' Yous come seen mees prise room, temusPoppa?'' Whisperer demanded, grinning excitedly.

'' Yes, yes I will. But are you trying to get rid of me, just when we've reached our new _rapprochement_, Doctor?'' Artie asked, laughing.

'' You need some play time, Mr. Gordon. It's just as good for 'grown folks' as it is for children, you might not know. In any case, Jacques and I want to talk 'shop' and after awhile that usually bores you.''

''To tears, absolutely to tears. Have fun, _gentilhommes.'' _Artie said and let Whisperer go on eagerly pulling him in the direction of the 'prise room.

'' What do you think, mon docteur-ami,'' Miguel asked Jacques when the child had the actor out of sight down the hall. '' Did we just hit another shift in direction with all this, or did we just get another piece dropped into place in our all encompassing puzzle?''

'' I believe it is the latter, mon ami. It seems to me, in fact we may simply have been given an answer that surprises us only because we hadn't thought till then to ask the question. These brothers, j' pense, clearly take care of Jim and of each other by coming forward, by taking charge, as it were, when another of their number is pressed to his limit. And as odd as it seemed at first, I am beginning to agree with you, that this is not a pathological process, not in this one case, at least. These brother-selves do not take control of Jim's physical self, in order to harm, but to aid him, to defend him, and each other.  I don't know if he will able to understand it in that light. But then, I don't know at this moment what Jim will be able to understand, ever. Is that why you sent Artemus with the child, because you feared an attack of my native Gallic pessimism? Artemus insists I am, in fact, the optimist among our team's members.'' 

'' I thought I saw some of that Gallic pessimism just on the horizon. We're all worn out with this, and making far slower progress than our impatient natures care for.'' Miguel answered. ''But my assessment matches yours, my friend. These brother-selves are far more complex than I first thought, myself. And yet they have all of James West's considerable aptitude for single-mindedness, as regards one another. Their entire raison d'etre would seem to be mutual self-defense, with only superficial, wholly to be expected, fraternal strife. And their apparent internal configurations are quite astounding to me. I have a few thousand questions we don't have time just now for me to ask them about that, in and of itself! Perhaps the brothers will consent to being studied as a matter of furthering the available research, when we're considerably further along with West's recovery. But, why

are you almost as discouraged now, Jacques, as Gordon was, the first time you got him back here to see the Torrys? Has something happened that I, again, don't know of?''

Jacques looked at the small doctor a moment and then sighed Gallicly and shrugged in much the same fashion. '' You are a mental-telepathist; I am now convinced of it! We may have less time than even the miserable conditions here give us, mon ami. We may lose Jim, not to his illness but to a military-beaureaucratic nightmare in the offing!''

'' Be so good as to explain that absurd statement, Doctor!'' Miguel nearly hissed. '' What sort of idiotic governmental morass is threatening Torry? And why am I only hearing of it, now?''

'' You are right to say idiotic. It seems there are actually those in the Service, in the Administration, and in the Army who want a Senate or Congressional hearing, a Federal grand jury or a courts martial convened in the matter of events at the Maryland House Hotel, September 30th, two years past!

I only learned of it in a letter from Thomas I received in the most recent post to my clinic office, here. That came three days ago, Miguel, and I swear to you I first thought it was some sort of hoax! Thinking that, I wired Thomas just that question. Mais, these ludicrous clerks and toadies, these damnable fools are serious, mon ami. They want to try Jim West for his actions that day! And the only upside, as Artie will likely say, when he hears of this, is it would definitely get Jim and you out of this corner of hell, for the duration! 

Needless to say, Thomas, Jeremy, Franklin and the Colonel and M'sieur l' President are already making their strongest possible opposition to this idiocy clearly known! And they have countless other members of the Service, and the Army, who knowing Jim, and his record will stand with us, and against this new madness! I cannot bring myself to believe these dolts would openly oppose M'sieur Grant's wishes on this subject! Nor do I even wish to contemplate what being hauled out of here as some new sort of prisoner would do to these brothers equilibrium, which we were just so much admiring! Nor is that the darkest place my pessimism takes me on this matter.''  Jacques finished, slamming one blunt, firmly clenched fist against the other.

'' What is, then?'' Miguel asked, concerned for his usually cheery colleague.

''Mon ami, I am overtired as you said. We all are. And like the Torrys when they're 'too far aways from napping… my imagination needs little help to darken… I fear, my instincts, the ones that told Jim was not himself that day in '72, are now shouting at me, saying something more lies behind this push to make a public spectacle of Jim's apparent breakdown. Thus, I have grave doubts as to our ability to adequately protect Jim, physically

 or psychologically, from attack in such open venues! We still don't know what has become of Aynsley. We still don't know how many co-conspirators he has! And even to myself, I begin to sound more than a little deranged when I say that aloud.''

'' But not to me, my friend.'' Miguel told him, laying one small hand on Jacques' arm. '' We said, only a little while ago, these conspirators clearly intended to destroy the man they failed to make their assassin, that man being James Torrance West. And from what Gordon has been able to tell us, what he's beginning to remember of Aynsley's laboratory, I happen to know it would take a great deal of money to equip such a torture chamber.

And in our cheerless, modern times, money equals all types of influence, including the corrupting political breed. Therefore, assuming Herr Professor Doctor Aynsley is or was not independently wealthy, the next logical step is to say he must have 'backers', supporters, and subscribers for his maniacal business! So, we must remove Torry and his brothers from these environs, we must repair with them to a kinder, healthier and friendlier climate, both of which goals we had firmly in our sights, already. And to those, we must now add preventing this would-be show-trial, this politically motivated kangaroo courts martial; Jacques, or we must at least delay it, somewhat.''

Jacques listened to the older doctor's every word. He'd come to have greater and greater respect for Miguel's intellect and for his vast resourcefulness He was a rare combination of elements, to say the least, a genius with a bent for practical, and practicable matters. Now, however the Canadien wasn't quite sure he could believe what he'd heard de Cervantes saying. Speechless, he turned his bright hazel eyes on the small doctor and waited for some elucidation.

'' Oh, stop looking at me as if I'd abruptly shot up to five foot one! '' Miguel chuckled at his friend's expression. '' Delay is the key to the strategy that only just came to me, while I was listening to your gloomy and yet gloomier worries. For the sorts of so-called legal processes these fools are proposing, for the most part, the central figure cannot be tried _in absentia _And the Torrys are those central figures. Nor do I intend we should present some absurd sort of insanity plea to these dimwits and party hacks and such. I read the Law at Oxford and at Yale, you know.''

'' Non, I didn't know about you're going to Yale.'' Jacques said, as numbly as he felt.  ''Miguel, what 'defense' does Jim have if he is in his right mind? More to the point, what defense could he present, or we present for him, if as regards the day in question he could be shown or proven to be sane?''

''Sane is such a pathetically legalistic term, mon ami. In fact it is literally only a legal construct, legal sanity, that is. Mon ami, all we need do, is first, get the brothers to a safer, warmer, healthier place… his home outside Norfolk, or my new one outside Richmond… or Thomas's brownstone in Georgetown, which I'm told is really quite comfortable, or even better out at my own Las Miraboles. Once having done that, and with Thomas holding their power of attorney, none of these cretinous politicos and military clerics can touch them, while we make our own preparations for whatever process those fools should attempt.

While we do that, they may just run out of steam. Or they may … comment t'on dit… show their hand too early, if they haven't already done so, those who you fear have more violent measures in mind than hearings and courts martial. In any case, the moment they falter, the moment they make their maneuver, E!  Voila! The jig is up! And while they were preparing to do Torry and his brothers some supposed irreparable harm, they will in fact have forcibly effected the brothers' removal from these nightmarish premises! Well, what now, man, have I grown to ten foot three?''

 ''In my estimation, mon docteur-ami, you most certainly have.''  Jacques finally managed a wan version of his usual bright, crooked grin. '' _Tu est un geant vrai, mon ami_. You are a true giant, Miguel de Cervantes.''

'' I knew that.'' Miguel answered somberly.  But in an instant he began to chuckle, to giggle and finally to roar with laughter, smiling all the more when his new friend Jacques joined in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Scene Eighteen   Baltimore, Md  1874 **

The next day and the next, on into the following week, were, thankfully in the eyes of the team members, quieter and much less eventful. They carried their share of questions, some with readily understood answers, and some only leading to more questions. Artie, Jacques, Mac, Jeremy, Frank and Miguel were getting used to the latter, and still pleasantly surprised by the former instances. The 'Torrys' were happily busied, and well distracted, during this respite, exploring every corner and each object in the 'prise room', playing at 'tens an' sojers', injun scouts' 'horsys'  or  'reely trayns'. They made use of everything that came to hand in these plays, and when allowed, held many 'skirmiches', 'marchins', and 'fyreflites'.

The 'grown folks' watching these activities saw what only looked like one little boy, racing up and down and across the playroom, laughing, shouting and singing as he hadn't done in nearly three years time. They were delighted with the Torry's increasing liveliness and inventive applicatons of his 'puzzlees an wheely-yanymuls' carved for the child by Mac Macquillan and his nephew, a young doctor, new to the Service and the team, Rob Spencer. They were more pleased than the child, in fact, when a pair of soft new cots appeared in the playroom, along with word that 'Jonathan Traherne North' and 'Miguel Novalles' as the officials still insisted on calling their 'patients', had permission to stay and sleep there.

Those same officials were under daily pressure by others on the team and, increasingly by county and state authorities. The agents on Mac's team once more added to that pressure by taking watches of their own to keep Jim and Miguel safe. They no more trusted the administrators or guards now that matters were shifting in the agent's favor, than they had when the previous status quo looked to be unending.

'' Indeed, with their power-base moving like an earthquake fault under their feet, these days.'' Miguel suggested to Macquillan on his next visit, '' I'm inclined to trust them even less, now. They may try anything to get back some portion of the control they once had here. Your legal processes and measures are effecting a sea-change in this terrible place.

And that is all to the good, to be sure. But those who both tormented and neglected their charges here, including the Torrys, aren't very likely to simply walk away from their sadistic pleasures. My concern is still mostly for Torry and his brothers, as they are my charge here. But there are some five hundred and eighty other souls trapped here. What can be done for them, must be done, and very soon, Thomas. Otherwise, I greatly fear some attempt by these so called guards at reprisals.''

'' I have to agree. And there is some good news on that front.'' Mac told him. '' It seems whoever the true owner of this complex may be, and that trail is proving twisted and cold as a dead rattlesnake, they're way past due on their county taxes. In other words, this whole place is going to auction within the next month or so, to recover what's owed. All we need now, is a wealthy philanthropist or two, or three to step up and pay those back taxes; and

we kick the present so called administrators and their flunkies out those doors!'' Mac

grinned at the prospect, then sighed and frowned.

'' But you next want to know why my having Jim's power of attorney still hasn't effected his release, in all this time. It seems the bastard or bastards who dumped the Youngster here dotted a lot of the I's and crossed a great many of the Ts involved in that false commitment. And that leads me to think that we're going to find a lot more of these frauds when we finally get at the files in the administrator's office. '' The Bostonian lawyer grimaced.

'' In the case of 'Jonathan North' they filed a hill of papers with the county, and state health officials, all very intricately setting up that false identity for Jim West. They forged everything from birth to Army records! And they did a pretty damn good job with their forgeries. I should know, that's been more than half of my job for … ten years now! This false commitment wasn't something that just happened on the sly, the day Jim was injured, Doctor. This was something planned out for weeks, for months, maybe, maybe longer. And we still don't have the answer to one of our central questions: Who is this Aynsley and why does he have it in for Jimmy West?''

'' It may be that Oldest… that is, Major West knows that answer.'' Miguel nodded, following Mac's gaze as he looked across the room at his now sound asleep, young partner. 'And then again, it may be he doesn't. The more I learn about these plotters, though, the more it seems to me that if they know our young friend so well, so intimately, is it really possible he doesn't know them?''

''But we don't exactly have a way to ask Jim, do we?'' Mac frowned again.

'' No, I think we might have. My only caveat in even attempting to do discern the answer, is my serious doubt that his answers would be considered admissible as evidence against these plotters. The fact remains that, at present, your legal system, and indeed most such entities around the world would consider the Torrys and or their Oldest brother _non compos mentis._ That would make them at best, poor witnesses for any potential prosecution.''

'' Mac doesn't need us as witnesses, Doc Miguel.'' A clear, strong young voice argued. ''He needs us to give him the kinds of answers he can turn into leads that get him those witnesses. That's so, isn't it, Prof?''

Macquillan turned around even more quickly than Miguel, to find 'Jim' standing in the doorway of the playroom, smiling and busying his hands with a game of cat's cradle'. This entity had a wide, lazy smile, a bright green, fully sighted gaze and a youthful affect.

'' You're …not Jimmy.'' Mac finally said, shaking his head, and knowing he shouldn't be surprised or disappointed. 'Jimmy' West hadn't spoken to his team leader, or anyone else, in nearly three years, now.

'' Nope, I'm Youngest Jaimey. I got my name from Grampa Jaimey, and uncle Jimmy… and great-Grampa Jaimey Torrance, from Killarney. I'm in S Company. And I've got to always remember to make that distinction, cos the Vs have a Jaimey, too. He's a lot more like Grampa, though, of course.''

''Yes, I suppose he would be. So, Jaimey… '' Mac started and stopped, not knowing what to say to this 'brother' of his young friend and partner. Feeling helpless again. sad and not a little shocked, the Bostonian turned to Miguel, shrugging.

'' Jaimey,'' Miguel nodded. '' As you can tell, you've pretty well taken us by surprise. And I'm fairly sure you're right about the way you might help Thomas' investigation. I suppose I'm startled, too, because I haven't known one of you and your brothers, except the Torrys, to simply walk up and announce himself, unless…''

'' Unless it was TM, or Brawler, or one of the D's mostly, flying off th' handle. That isn't really fair, though, we figure. S's have been known to lose our tempers… onct or twict… '' Jaimey answered. '' You got the brunt of Scout's black Irish/Welsh temper, just the other day. Figure we've all been danged angry, since getting dumped here. Figure anybody would be, right?''

''Very right.'' Mac agreed. '' And about that… Jaimey, about the time you were 'dumped here'; just for starters, we still have a trainload of questions. D'you think you can help us out, at all?''

'' You've been helping us, right along, once you found us, Prof. Seems only right we should try to … help back. One thing, though, some of the Ss, and the Vs, and especially the Littles, can't take this danged place much longer. Will that county sale get us out of here and home, d' you think?''

'' I think it could. I think it may be the best way to get that done. One thing I know, Jaimey, we're going to get you… all of you away from here, and I honestly believe, sooner rather than later. I've made it my first priority, coming ahead of this case, my word on that.''

'' We could pretty well figure that, Prof. You never pulled a fast one on us, excepting mebbee some of those tactics quizzes up at the Point! A couple more of those and certain sure, we'd have flunked!''

'' My friends, if we can leave the reminiscences.'' Miguel chuckled.  ''Just for now?''

''Oh, sure, surely!'' Jaimey laughed. ''Fire away, Prof, what I can't answer, somebody else mebbee can, usually. If that weren't so, we'd have flunked grammar school and never seen th' inside of so much as th' boarding school up in Alexandria. You need to know about when we got here, or more like, before that?''

'' Let's just stick with questions you can answer, Jaimey.'' Mac said, catching himself. '' Do you, do any of you know how you got to the asylum here from the Maryland House, that day?''

Jaimey straddled a chair beside one of the examination tables and scratched at the back of his head a moment. ''I don't, Prof. S Company pretty much doesn't either.'' He finally answered. ''Really bad thing about that … day, the Ls well and truly caught the worst of it. They knew they might, with that crazed girl there, that Liesl. Not she had it in for the Littles. Just she was finally gonna go after th' Man herself, no matter what else happened.

It was all she cared for, anymore, y' see? She'd played it out in her head probly a thousand, thousand times, before then. She had it all by heart, what she'd say, an' what she'd do. We don't think she even got that she was killed herself… when that Colt went up. We saw some boys in the War, go pretty much the same way, too… Not an idea in the whole, entire world they were even hurt. You saw boys go out like that, Prof, didn't you?'

'' Too many times to count, I saw them.'' Macquillan nodded glumly. ''What else can you tell us about that day, Jaimey? Anything?''

'' Oh… not so … Wait yeah… Prof, you need to keep this to tell Oldest when he can really hear it, y' know… You too, Doc, it's real important, and he's so deep asleep right now, in a manner of speakin'… Prof, Doc, Oldest Torry stopped Cour from finishing that danged patterning. Oldest Torry came up, came into place, and stopped Cour from pulling the trigger on the Colt Cour brought there.  It was like watchin' a man breakin' the surface of a lake or a river… when you think he must've purely drowned. Oldest came up in all the strength he could muster; and he pulled Cour right off that danged 'faultless path' Cour was s'posed to be treadin'! That's what the bastards called the patterning… 'th' faultless path'! And what's more, though he'll never in a thousand years say so, Cour was danged glad to get pulled, that day! ''

''Jaimey, that is Courier you're talking about?'' Miguel asked.

'' Yeah. You can see why Oldest is gonna need to know what he truly done that day.''

'' Absolutely. Thank you, Jaimey. I think, that will help … Jimmy quite a lot, eventually. ''

''Surely.'' The youth nodded and then seeming puzzled himself, shook his head. Miguel knew what that might signal, and wondered if Macquillan had seen the phenomenon before now himself.

'' The kid's got some of that right, Macquillan, Doctor.'' Courier said, coming vividly 'into place'. His was an older, more martial, sterner, far more melancholy aspect, his eyes wholly blind, shifting restlessly, showing unmistakable nerve damage to the Doctor's critical perspective. ''And he's got some of it wrong. But he's just a kid, after all. I'm the only  one you should be asking about that … day. I'm Courier. I was the one in that suite and in that hallway… for the most part.''

'' Alright, Courier.'' Mac nodded, shaking off for now, his fascination with the fluid change from one 'brother' to the next. '' What was Jaimey right about in what he told us? And where did he have it wrong?''

Courier turned towards Macquillan so sharply, the team leader thought for an instant he wasn't blind at all.  ''Are you sure you want the Doctor here in on all this?''  Courier demanded, sullenly.

'' I am. I asked him in on this. All of it. No exceptions.'' Mac nodded.

'' It's your … picnic, then, I suppose. The kid was right about at least one thing. And I suppose it could be as important as he claims. The Ss set a whole lot of store by Oldest. They seem to think he could walk across Chesapeake Bay barefoot without getting wet, if he took a mind to. I happen to know he's just human… Most of D Company would agree with me, on that. I happen to think, most of V Company would, too. That being said, Oldest did come up that day. Somehow in the midst of all that, he stood up and took the reins right out of my hands. I have to think he was saving his strength for days or weeks or months, maybe to be able to do that. You probably have figured by now Oldest was well and truly run through the mill, before we ever got inside that hotel suite.

So, the kid was right about Oldest taking over the 'show'. But he couldn't keep hold, not once that redheaded nut case started screaming and waving

 her Army Colt around. And then the damned gun went up! What happened after that could best be described as a melee! Nobody had the reins for

more than a couple minutes; not Oldest, not me, not anybody. Nobody could've, if you ask me. The path, like the kid said a minute ago, was completely gone, it was blown to smithereens by then, anyhow, by that Old Soldier, that … President of yours. The patterns were in shards, everywhere we looked, and there was no getting them back together. There surely was no time for a confab! And whenever that happens it turns into every brother for himself, you know? But the Ds still look to me, mostly. So I just gave them the nod and let 'em fly. We sure as anything couldn't stay there, now could we? You've got some idea what happened then, right?''

Mac nodded. '' We know about half a dozen people saw Jim West running back through the President's suite, into the corridor behind it. We know there is a staircase leading from that floor down to an alleyway. We know Jim didn't come back through the front entry of the hotel. Based on only that, we think he must have been taken from that alley… That is, I cannot, we cannot imagine how Jim could have mounted a horse the way he was injured, the way we know now his hands were burned. That leaves a third party or parties getting him away from there while all the commotion was still underway upstairs. That leaves said third party or a fourth one bringing Jim West here, and having him committed as insane under an alias. So, Courier, my only other questions for you, about that day are these: Did you 'take the reins' back at any point in that process? And if so, do you know who 'dumped' Jim West and the rest of you here, under the false name Jonathan Traherne North?''

'' I did, a couple times. And no, I don't know who your third party is or was. And you can believe me or not, Macquillan; but I'm telling you I literally cannot tell you who it was. If I ever knew, it was taken out of my head, whole, some years back. And you know that's why I asked if you wanted the Doctor in on all this.''

''And he told you, Courier that he does. No exceptions.'' Miguel reiterated, frowning. '' So, what do you mean exactly by 'some years back'? And why shouldn't Thomas allow me to know about … al this? I've done everything I can so far to keep my word, to keep my promises. I intend to keep my word and my promises in full in this matter, as in every other. I've certainly not done your brothers, any of them any harm whilst here. On that

 basis, why shouldn't he trust me, Courier, and why don' t you?'' 

'' Doctor, you shouldn't take it personally.'' Courier said, almost smiling. '' I don't trust anybody, anywhere, anytime. Never have and never will. With good reasons, some of which you well understand. The same things true of most of B Company, for that matter. We don't hand out trust and camaraderie like Grampas Jamey and Davy used to hand out sour candies. But this once, I'll be glad to help you out…''

'' By first asking me which way I came in?'' Miguel quipped. ''Please, go ahead.''

'' Yeah, I will. It's like this, these crazed bastards, I don't know who they are, and sometimes I'm real glad of that, too. But yeah, they're real… peaches, Well…nearly three years ago wasn't even close to being their first try at this kind of 'mischief'. They got this great idea back during the War. They nabbed a lot of fellows back then, that were already locked up in Richmond prisons, Belle Isle, and the Libby and the rest, Union boys that got caught after one fire-fight or another.

And their whole, entire thought was to get some of those boys crazed enough to go back across the lines and take out George Meade or Billy Sherman, or Phil Sheridan, some of those fellows. But their main thought was, once he came east, and took over-all Command, was to send some poor devil after … General Grant. Macquillan here's one of the reasons they didn't get their way, then. He got it just about entirely figured, you see, why some Union boys and officers weren't still at one of those prisons in and ' round Richmond. And he came down on that enthralling place, it being just a bit north of Richmond, like the very wrath of G-d, as I recall, with a couple companies of cavalry he had on loan from General Sheridan.''

 Courier shook his head, and another sea change started. In the next moment, a very weary, very broadly smiling and familiar visage took his 'younger brother's' place. '' And were we ever glad to see Mac come busting through those gates, down there! And those were really high stone and ironwork gates, it seems I remember…  Is that how you recall it?''  Jim West asked his friend and mentor.

'' Well, I'm not sure it was me breaking in those gates..Youngster… '' Mac answered, making every effort not to stare at his friend and protégé, who, wholly blind, just as Courier was, couldn't see his stare, in any case.

'' I'm going on second-hand reports, m'self, Prof.'' Jim nodded, blinking and looking perplexed. '' Seems as though I was flat on my back with my danged malaria, again. Seems as though I had a busted leg, too…   right now, though, I seem to have …some kind of handhold… that

 I haven't had in… a good long while… ''

'' That sounds like a fairly accurate description, Major.''' Miguel agreed, careful to go back to his former way of addressing the soldier-agent. ''You've been in and out of consciousness.''

'' Okay, yeah, feels pretty much … like trying to swim in a mudslide…  … upstream in a mudslide … don't recommend it … can't recommend it, not a bit… And … you're … trying to help, Doctor?  Figure I'm in … some real… trouble… lots of it … again. Am I, Mac?''

'' Not as much as you have been, some times past, Youngster.'' Macquillan told him, grasping Jim's right hand as the younger man reached out. ''No demerits, not this time.''

''Not yet, he means.'' Jim chuckled, tiredly.  '' How much trouble am I actually in here, Doctor?''

'' Less than you have been in, Major, in some times past.'' Miguel answered. '' I'm here to help, at Thomas' invitation. And you have a very acceptable prognosis. I also think you're not yet at fighting-strength, and thus it would be wrong to push yourself, just yet.''

Jim's eyes widened, and neither man watching could tell if the soldier-agent realized his chief handicap. Letting out a deep breath, Jim seemed to ponder what he'd heard. ''That's got to be either the most restrained, or the least unambiguous set of statements I've ever heard you make, or both. But I am damnably worn-out, so maybe you're actually being straightforward, just this once, just to keep us guessing.''  He finally answered.

'' That could be one interpretation, surely.'' Miguel agreed. '' But since I am here in my role as a physician, Major, I'll go ahead and ask you all the usual, blandly doctorish questions, if you don't mind. Aside from being worn out, aside from the confusion and general lassitude you mentioned, Major West, what else are you aware of, any particular aches and pains,

any significant symptoms, or any other deficits?''

''Well, it's … awfully quiet in here, and I thought I was someplace a lot more crowded, a lot noisier, too. I don't seem to have any idea where we are, or how long I've been… wherever that is. And I'm really hoping somebody just forgot to pay last month's gas-bill… Because I can't seem to see my nose in front of my face! Your turn, fellows… This is where you really need to tell me, Mac, if that gas bill's right there in your vest pocket, where you left it, or not. Thomas, please?'' Jim asked, his smile disappearing, his shoulders slumping.

''Jim?'' Artie shouted, running into the infirmary, rushing to hug his partner. ''Jim!''

''Hey, Artie.'' Jim responded, surprised by how glad he was to have that hug, as if it had been quite a while. ''Hey, leave the ribs the way and where you found them, will you, big guy?''

''Oh, sure, Jim. Sure, partner.'' Artemus agreed, stepping back. '' Jim, when did…''

'' I don't know when I got here, Artemus! I don't even know where here is, for G-d's sake! But what I seem to have figured, by the way Mac's keeping shut, along with … our friend the Doctor, is … I tend to doubt that wherever here is, they're having some kind of … solar eclipse.'' Jim said, reaching for and feeling Artie's big, long hands grasping his own. ''There's not an eclipse going on here, is there, partner? C'mon, Artie, I've never been one to shoot the messenger, have I? Just tell me.''

'' You're… you were blinded, Jim.'' Artie choked out, hating the words and himself for saying them. ''By a revolver that we think, chain-fired, and exploded. We're not sure of the cause, James, because it…''

'' Exploded.'' Jim nodded, and swallowed hard. '' I suppose that accounts for my not knowing where we are, right? I suppose that covers why I don't seem to recall… well, a lot, I'd have to … suppose. And right now, I'm not sure… I want to… nope, 'm not sure a bit… think 'm gonna sit down… now….My knees just … turned to jelly… ''

''All right, take it easy, partner. I've got you, James, just c'mon right over here… '' Artie said, guiding the younger man to the closest cot. '' That's a lot to take in all at once, partner. A whole heck of a lot…and  ''

'' And I'm not back up to fighting-weight… yeah, get that, figure that.'' Jim muttered, sitting down and shaking his head. '' Ah, G-d! Here comes the mudslide…''

''Mudslide, Jim, what?'' Artemus asked, only to find a squirming, wriggling, and giggling little boy grinning daylight bright in his direction.

'' Y' did be catchin' Torrys Littles guddest, 'temusPoppa!'' Torry Little exclaimed. '' You did be!''

''I've.. had a fair amount of practice, Torry.  It's not such a good idea to drop your unconscious partner on his head, you see.'' Artie responded, despondent again. But now, acting on an impulse he'd often held back with Jim, the actor reached to ruffle the child's thick, dark unruly hair.

Giggling again, the children-selves reached for and hugged the actor-agent with all their considerable enthusiasm. ''Us'ns Ol'es Torry's no maddy wif you, 'temusPoppa.'' The child whispered to his tallest, strongest 'guddest frien'. '' Hims camed up to say hullo, wif usn's Quiyat Tommy an' Mee-Gell. Hims was veryiest glad you camed in, too, den. Just us'ns Ol'es Torry hims not better 'nuff nows to stay up more longer, sorta kinda like when Torrys Littles was hardly even babies an no could stay up so many. ''

''And you watch for, you protect him. You protect Oldest Torry, who I more often call Jim, is that what Scout was saying the other evening?'' Artie asked.

''Yeah, uh-huh. Usn's allus did.'' The child answered somberly, and then grinned. '' Wees get down an mebbee make some more of puzzlees, nows?''

'' Sure.'' Artie nodded and watched as the child scrambled down from the cot, and hurried off, along the way he'd marked and memorized, just lately, into the playroom. Dejected, the actor turned back to Macquillan. '' I didn't imagine what just happened here, did I, old friend? G-d knows I've been hoping for Jim to 'wake up' or 'come up' or come around hard enough… ''

'' Jimmy was here, old friend. We were talking about that last summer of the War, when he got himself in some trouble down around Richmond. We were talking about it with a younger boy, named Jaimey and then with Courier. And the next thing I knew… there was our wandering Youngster.''

'' Well, I don't know Jaimey.  But I damn well hope Courier doesn't show himself around me, again, not anytime soon, that is! '' Artie scowled, and clenched a fist. '' He did his level best to trick me, and  confuse the hell out of me  for nearly a week, before going to the President. And if not for his sneaking out of the Bridgeport in the middle of the night…''

'' He would have found another way, any other way, to do it, to meet with the Man.'' Macquillan argued. '' And you should know that better than I do.''

''And now you're going to throw that up to me, Thomas?'' Artie growled, hating the memories being invoked.

'' I don't have to, Artemus, you're still doing that on a regular basis, too regular a basis, if you ask me, on your own. Can't you take Jim's being able to 'come 'round' for that long as a good sign, as good news, old friend? I can and I do. That has to be a kind of progress, I'd say. And you were going to find out if Jeanny Stuart or her father; Jimmy Randolph answered your wires, today. You were going to see if they were headed home, at long last. What about that, Artie?''

'' Jeanny wired me back from Capri. They're only staying there, I mean in Europe, another week. Then they're taking ship straight for Baltimore, she said, instead of Norfolk. That will only be another two or three weeks, or so, depending on weather on the Atlantic. But why did you decide to ask for Jimmy Randolph's help for Jim, now?'' Artie asked

'' Because they're Jim's family. And because Randolph's not without his own political influence, in Virginia and in the District.  We may need every scrap of that kind of pull if those idiots in the Congress or the Army go ahead with their damnfool hearings! And I'm willing to enlist anyone and everyone who can help us, help Jim. I'd enlist ol' Scratch if I thought he'd come in on our side, in this, old friend and you know that, too.''  Mac asserted, frowning at his long time friend.

'' But sometimes, Mr. Gordon still thinks you already did just that, Thomas.'' Miguel couldn't help jibing.

'' Not just lately, no.'' Artie protested. ''Not just lately, Doctor. What's your opinion on Jim's … coming around that way? What prompted it, do you think? And how can we help him do it again, more often, for longer periods?''

'' My opinion is that it was only surprising in being the first time I'm aware of that Major West has 'emerged', possibly for the first time since the day he was injured. That it was going to happen eventually, I never doubted. He's the origin-self for all these brothers, and in that sense, their core, their strongest identity lies within James West. We see that constantly, now, in the loyalty they show him.  A very strong tie between his own memories and the matter we were discussing seemed to me, to be the 'prompting' in this instance. Tincture of time is the answer to your last question, Mr. Gordon.  And I assure you, I am no more satisfied with that answer than you are, yourself.''

'' No, no, I shouldn't think you were, Doctor. You're still waiting eagerly for the day Jim has to thank you for all this. Aren't you?'' Artie complained.

'' Artie!'' Mac protested. But Miguel shook his head, held up one hand for patience, and walked over to the actor.

''The answer to your question a year ago, or six months ago would have been a categorical affirmative. It isn't now. And I don't really believe you believe your… statement, either.'' Miguel challenged Artie. ''You're wearied with all this, and depressed by the pace it's taking. Well, sir, so am I. However, the natural processes of healing are not and cannot be hurried to their hoped for ends. And there exists no surgery, not even in my grandest imaginings, capable of realigning the human psyche, once it's suffered this sort of trauma. So we must plod on, like dray horses, and to get anywhere at all, ever, I suggest, once more, we must do so in tandem. Or don't you agree with even that basic concept, Mr. Gordon? Gordon? Gordon, you might at least … ''

'' cannot be rushed to its proper ends.'' Artemus was reciting numbly, standing stock-still and clearly neither seeing nor hearing his companions. ''Science cannot be rushed to its proper ends, Niece. Nor should the dedicated Scientist attempt such folly as that. We have taken already eight years to reach this juncture. We have the prize nearly at our fingertips as we have not done since the Conflict, since in fact the summer before Atlanta fell. That prize, that goal cannot and it will not elude us now, Liesl Marguerite. And you are looking at one of the reasons I have for making such an assertion.  This man, Niece, came to us under false pretenses, or so he believed. This … person came saying he wished to aid our grand endeavors, when in fact he wished to infiltrate and damage if not ruin them!

But I am not an arbitrary man, I am not unjust in my thoughts or words or deeds. I am always conscious of the simple fact that one cannot right one grave injustice, as we seek to do in our grand endeavors, by perpetrating another. Therefore I will send this person, this emissary of all our enemies, from here, Liesl Marguerite with his life, and he will keep that life, unless something untoward were to happen after he leaves our home. His memory of our brief acquaintance, of our purposes and of our grand endeavors, however, Niece he will leave with us, as just recompense for his board and keep!

And what is more, due to the allegiance this enemy has to our long sought after Courier, because of their camaraderie, his departure will indeed bring us that Subject! Once this.. person is discovered by the minions of his government, his agency, we can be in daily expectation of our Courier's arrival. We can be in daily expectation, Niece of the JUSTICE WE HAVE 'TILL NOW BEEN SO LONG DENIED! The Courier will arrive here, soon and in great anger, seeking vengeance for injuries done this great friend of his! And as he was always meant to do, the Courier will at last become the instrument of OUR TRUE JUSTICE AND FULL RECOMPENSE! And that is what I mean by not rushing or wishing to rush our endeavors to their proper

ends.

 Liesl Marguerite, now, merely by sending this … invader whence he came; we ensure that his most loyal friend, OUR COURIER, the one who holds as well OUR GREAT ENEMY'S HIGHEST TRUST, will come into our hands, once more. He will come to us, all unknowingly, to carry out his true destiny. He will come, unaware of his illustrious task, to bring the triumph of our grandest endeavor. He will come to us as our enemy, our adversary, Niece entirely of his own free will. He will not leave here as anything but the Courier of our final missive to our GREAT ENEMY, Ulysses Simpson Grant!

 Shuddering and sweating by the time he fell silent again, Artemus hardly knew that Mac was guiding him to sit where Jim and Torry had been, moments before. He was just barely aware of Miguel putting a cup of with a measure of 'medicinal' bourbon in his hands, and checking his pulses. And only when Jacques, just now arrived, was holding that cup to the actor's mouth and urging him to sip from it, and then to lie back on the cot, was the older man conscious of his present surroundings, again. Blinking up at three worried faces, Artie was unavoidably tempted to quip.

 '' You're probably wondering why I called you all here.''

'' Not funny, old friend.'' Macquillan told him, scowling, to hide his relieved grin.

'' You've obviously lost your sense of humor, old friend.'' Artie argued. '' And besides, there is something you're going to want to hear, now, probably just as much as I don't want to tell you. And yes, it's something more I just remembered. A couple of somethings, actually.''

''Nothing that cannot wait till you've actually rested, mon ami.'' Jacques insisted.

'' I think that's more up to Mac, than you or me to decide, _mon docteur-ami.''_

'' Thomas?'' Jacques scowled in his turn.

'' He's clearly not going to give an inch, Jacques, until we hear him out.'' Macquillan answered, shaking his head. '' He's always been that way, about being heard out.''

'' _Oui, c'est vrai._ Briefly, then, Artemus. Or I shall enforce said brevity upon you.''

'' He's threatening to drug me now, Thomas.'' Artie complained.

'' I heard him. And I'm right there with him on that question, old friend. So, spill.''

''Aynsley knew who I was, and I'm not sure if that was the case before or after I got to  his damned … laboratory.  And if it was after… that only makes it worse. He knew, or found out from me, that Jim's my partner. Well, the other part I remembered, just then, was Aynsley going off on a tirade of his own. He was talking to the girl, the girl who came to the Maryland House with Jim, …with Courier. He, Aynsley was saying that simply by sending me back, like a week-old carp, they'd ensure, that was his word, they would ensure Jim's going there, gunning for that bastard! Thomas, if I'm the one who told Aynsley Jim and I are partners…Great G-d, if I did that;  If he could see, I couldn't look James in the face again!''

''Well, I can help you out there, get you off that hook,  old friend.'' Mac told the actor.

'' Really, how?''

''Because, Artie, it's much more likely that Jim's the one who told that sick bastard you're his partner. That's what Jaimey, and Courier and for a little while, Jim and the Doctor and I were talking about. During the last summer of the War. Jim went behind the lines, in uniform, that time, and got himself captured. That was all according to a plan Jim and Colonel Richmond and I put together. And it worked, to the extent that Jim wasn't taken to any of the Confederate prisons, in and around Richmond. Instead he was taken to what used to be a boarding or a convent school… between Richmond and Fredericksburg. And that was where a few hundred Union prisoners of war had been abducted to, where this Aynsley, under another false name, was trying out his damnable plan with them!

Our boy lucked out, we thought, because he came down with malaria, fell and broke his right leg, badly, and so shouldn't have been much use to their plotting. Well, when things had gone on longer than we expected, I told the Colonel I was going after the Youngster, alone or with as much company as I could get. And you came with, and so did you, Jacques, and so did Jeremy Pike. Frank was on the sick list himself that week, and mad as a wet hen about not coming along, too. You remember the wild ride south we made back then, don't you?''

'' Do I?'' Artie asked, and frowned. '' Wait a second, sure I do! Jim was so out of it with a fever he tried fighting us, carrying him out of there. Just the same, exact way he… or the Torrys fought to keep us from carting them out of here! So, it wasn't just his fever, then, anymore than it was just them being scared little boys, now.''

'' No, and I hate to say you're right about that, Artie.'' Mac nodded.

'' Well, Thomas, you always hate to say I'm right. '' The actor grinned, wanly.

'' We thought at that time, Jim had escaped his captor's worst measures.'' Jacques sighed. ''The other captives we brought from that awful place seemed much more impaired. A few had gone quite mad, which now; of course, we understand even more the causes. A few were suicidal for a some time afterwards. But notre jeune frere… ''

'' Gentlemen, if you don't mind a clinical question,'' Miguel interjected. '' It seemed to me, earlier that ''notre jeune frere' has a considerably better recollection of that place and time than he does of his more recent sojourn with this Aynsley. Is that your understanding, also?''

'' It seems that way to me, Doctor.'' Mac agreed.

'' But Jim wasn't at that privately owned patch of hell in Virginia half the time he was in Aynsley's … '' Artie started to say and stopped, abruptly clapping his mouth shut.

'' What is it, mon ami?'' Jacques asked.

 '' Aynsley's house!'' Artie shouted. '' I can see it right this minute, clear as day! Thomas, Jacques, Doctor, listen to me! I know where that damnable place is… or was, two and a half years ago. It's off the Washington-Baltimore turnpike. And like I said the other day, it's less than half an hour's ride south of Baltimore. The house sat a good eighth of a mile back off the road, at the end of a long, curving drive. And … no, there were hardly any trees, not close to the house, anyway. It's an old, tall frame, yellowish grey clapboard structure, always looked to me like it would come down in the next high wind. There was a stable, off to one side, with at least two rigs… I can't remember hearing those rigs come in or out of that dooryard, though. Well, c'mon, fellows! We have to find that house! Who knows what Aynsley may have left behind there! Who knows what might still be there that can finally, truly help Jim?''

''No offense taken, Mr. Gordon.'' Miguel couldn't keep from jibing. 

''No offense intended, Doctor.'' Artie answered, grimacing. '' I … meant to say what I can find, what _I _can do to finally help Jim. The man's only saved my life a few hundred times.  So my 'debt' is a lot higher than yours, wouldn't you say?''

'' No, actually, I wouldn't. Not unless the Major also saved your wife and unborn son from drowning. Did he?'' Miguel asked.

'' Not that I know of.'' Artie muttered. '' Jacques, Mac, let's get going, shall we?''

'' We shall, mon ami. You shall remain where you are, and rest while we make this journey. Or you shall be admitted to the hospital a few streets away, _et immédiatement.'' _Jacques told him, hazel eyes glinting with unadulterated Gallic resolve.

''Thomas, now he's threatening to incarcerate me!'' Artie protested, without much hope. There wasn't any hope.

'' Just what makes you think I disagree with the man, Artemus?'' Macquillan asked, scowling. ''You've been hovering on the edge of another heart seizure for weeks now. I don't find that a matter for any great amusement, old friend. and neither will Jim West, if you're planted six feet under when he's finally well enough to ask after his partner!''

'' Why does everyone keep bringing up that incredibly remote possibility?'' Artie complained.

'' Perhaps because you've shown such skill at ignoring that all too real potential.'' Miguel suggested.

'' I have many skills.'' Artie groused, knowing defeat via triple teaming when he heard it.

''  'temusPoppa!'' a little boy's voice called out now, from the doorway of the infirmary. '' Quiyat Tommy! Jac! Mee-Gell! Wees heerd yous playin' them grown folks takkin' games…Wees did be makin' so many awfully much puzzlees, so many of times, nows… an'  M'hundry nows!''

''Well, here's another of your skills we can put to good use, old friend. The boy's hungry!'' Mac laughed.

 '' He's a soldier, Mac, and he's… a little boy. When aren't soldiers, and little boys hungry?'' Artie asked, looking at the child, thinking he seemed marginally younger than Torry Little, who'd gone to play a short while ago.

'' mees no' Torry Sojer, 'temusPoppa!'' the child giggled. ''Mees tod yous, mees M'hundry, an' m' hundry nows, plees can have some of them guddes' been suups 'r 'mater suups 'r vegabul suups, an' plees can have some of clakkers 'r budder saniches wif, plees?''

'' I think we can probably manage something like that, don't you, Thomas? You were going out on some errands, anyway, right?'' Artie asked, grinning as he shifted the task onto his friend and team leader.

'' But, with the soup, get us some of that really nice lamb stew from that café a couple of streets over by the hospital, will you, old friend? I'd say we need to start putting some meat back on his bones, wouldn't you, Jacques? Wouldn't you… Miguel?''

''Yes, we can manage that, I suppose, Artemus.'' Macquillan pretended to glower at his long time friend and then simply nodded and started to leave the room, motioning for Jacques to follow him. Jacques issued Artie one more, equally stern, glance and complied. Miguel was chuckling at all three friends, when the little boy started giggling again, shuffling into the infirmary.

'' Wazz izz, 'temusPoppa, puttinmeet… Wazz izz, Mee-Gell?'' the little boy asked.

''  'temus meant to say that it would be good for you, 'hundry, to eat good food again. It would help you get stronger, as we've talked about before. Remember?'' Miguel asked.

'' Uhhuh. if wees et some of more gudder fuuds, wees be no so many waked up, b'cause of bein' so many hundry… an if wees be no so many waked up, mebbee wees have no so many scare-dreams… mebbee… wees no likt them scare-dreams, thems veryiest bad an' scaredy… '' the child's wide eyes grew wider and began to shine with tears, while his mouth trembled and his thin frame began to shake.

'' ' 'hundry…'' Artie said, gently patting the boy's shoulders, feeling his compassion for the child rising. '' We don't want you to have those scare-dreams, either. And … a few days ago, Miguel said you've been having more of them, lately. Is that so?''

''Yeah, uh-huh.'' the child nodded. ''Dunno whys, izz wees wazz bad Littles, temusPoppa? Izz dat, Mee-Gell?''

''No.'' the two men chorused, so much together and so strongly they surprised each other and

startled the little boy. Miguel, seeing a new dynamic he liked very much between Gordon and the child, nodded for the actor to continue.

''No, 'hundry, you and … your brothers have been very good, and very, very brave, just like we talked about, before. And remember, you've been playing very hard today, and might have missed taking a nap. We talked about the scaredys running up at you when you're … tired, didn't we?'' Artie asked.

'' Yeah, wees did.''

'' That's right. And I'll tell you something else, alright?  And even though we don't always, I'm fairly sure … Miguel agrees with me, on this. I don't… we don't truly believe little boys can be bad. We think people who say little boys are bad, just don't understand very much about … being little. 'hundry, I think some grown folks just plain forget they used to be … littles, once. And that's too bad, I think. Because then they likely forgot how to have fun, too, how to play. And I think some grown folks forgot how hard little boys can play and get tired out and even worried. What do you think about that?''

The child now cocked his head in purely Westian fashion, and scrunched his features, which in his Oldest brother, usually indicated profound thought processes, or profound mischief in the making. 

'' 'temusPoppa, Mee-Gell, yous fink Littles no can be bad boys?'' he finally asked them.

Artie glanced at Miguel now, but the doctor shook his head to indicate the actor should keep going.

'' No, we don't. Not even a little bit. '' Artie answered the child with a decided tone. '' We think little boys can get very excited, like you and … your brothers did when you first found the play … the 'prise room. You wanted to run back and forth a dozen times… And find everything in there, and then run about some more… And play with everything you'd found… And, 'hundry, that's just what little boys like to do. And it was even better than that, because… Do you think you know why that was?''

'' Dunno, mebbee b'cause Littles … '' the child now rubbed one hand through his hair and scratched his head, making Artie swallow on an ache, the gestures were so familiarly Jim-like. '' b'cause Littles dint bust nothin'?''

'' Well, no, that wasn't really …'' Artie shook his head, while Miguel just started giggling. '' 'hundry, I don't think we would have … What I meant was that you hadn't felt good enough, or strong enough in awhile to run and play so much. So, you are getting better, now, aren't you?''

''  mebbee… wees fink so… '' the child nodded, and then as they watched, became downcast again.

''  'hundry, what's wrong? Why are you sad?'' Miguel asked, his own smile gone.

'' Dunno, Mee-Gell.'' the child shrugged. '' Mees dunno… wees did be have many much gud playin' wif puzzlees an wheelie nanimls, an' tens an' sojers… an wees did be likt takkin wif yous an usn's guddes ovver friens nows… an izz so many mixdied up… some of times… ''

'' Well, that's alright, you know, it happens to the best of us, sometimes.'' Artie said, with a wry glance at the doctor. ''Even … me sometimes, maybe even Miguel. What's got you mixed up, little?''

'' Wazz mebbee them ol' scaredys, 'temus Poppa, wazz mebbee them ol' maddy an scaredy peepls… '' the little boy told him, tearing up again. '' thems teld Torrys Littles wees wazz so many bad an'  bad boys… thems teld Torrys Littles wees … done mos' awfully bad an baddes' fings… thems sed wazz whys Torrys Littles wazz havta stay heere! An' us'ns Littles wazz so many much muzzied den an' skeered an'… hurted… An'… nows, Mee-Gell, m' Quiyat Tommy, an yous, 'temusPoppa, an' Jer'my an' Jac an' Frankie..  teld us'ns Torrys Littles warn't no bad boys, neever! Wazz bad Littles b'for nows, an on'y gud Littles affer yous camed heere? ''

'' No.'' Artie said very quietly, and suddenly greatly moved, he impulsively pulled the child close to hug him. ''No, you were never bad boys. Never at all. They lied, those scarey people. They told you lies, again and again, and again. And I want you to listen to me, now, Littles… Please, listen. None of us will ever, ever, ever tell you any lies. Not Tommy, not Jacques, not Frank or Jeremy or Miguel, or myself. We won't do that, Littles. Because we never want any more lies to hurt you.  Because we love you. We love you, very, very much, all of you, good, good little boys. I … love you, so very much, Torrys Littles.''

'' Wees does be lovin' yous, many much an' much, 'temusPoppa.'' the child answered, and then turned in his arms to reach one hand in the direction he'd last heard Miguel's voice. The small doctor thought of demurring; but Artie shifted around, looked at him, and shook his head. When the child moved again, Artie gently encouraged him to walk towards the small doctor. In the next moment, a gesture that would have baffled, even angered the actor a few months before, now warmed him, as the child within his best friend fiercely hugged Miguel de Cervantes.

 '' Wees does be lovin' yous, many veryiest much, Mee-Gell.'' the little boy softly told the small doctor.

'' And I love you, Torrys Littles, very much indeed.''  Now_ we've truly begun his healing, together._ _Thank you, Artemus._ _ Miguel signed. _

_No, no, thank you, Doctor. Thank you, Miguel_. Artie replied, his dark-bright eyes shining like diamonds. A worry niggled at the back of his mind, though, that his wholehearted promise to the child, might prove 'many much and much' easier made, than kept. 

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**END, NIGHT OF THE BLIND BEGGAR,** To Be Continued In:

**The Night of the Darkening Dream**, A W3 tale by Roniyah Gabrielle Caitrin Bhaer


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